THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE  LUCKY  NUMBER 


THE  LUCKY  NUMBER 


BY 

I.  K.  FRIEDMAN 


CHICAGO 

WAY  AND  WILLIAMS 
1896 


COPYRIGHT 

BY  WAY  AND  WILLIAMS 

MDCCCXCVI 


PS 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Chauvinism  at  Devereux's  -                       7 

Rouge  et  Noir         ...  -      3° 

A  Monger  of  Ballads  38 

A  Coat  of  One  Color      -  -         -      55 

A  Pair  of  Eyes  -  70 

The  Magic  Herb     -  -      87 

The  Return  103 

The  Flight  of  a  Night-Hawk  -     124 

A  Fair  Exchange        -  142 

Aaron  Pivansky's  Picture        -  -         -     181 


907902 


Chauvinism  at  Devereux's 

"Patriotism  is  the  last  refuge  of  a  scoundrel." 

— DR.  JOHNSON. 

DEVEREUX  is  a  Frenchman  —  his 
name  has  told  you  that  at  a  glance ; 
he  is  a  Frenchman  out  of  France,  a  fish  out 
of  water,  and  the  water  is  cleaner  for  the 
absence  of  the  fish.  Anxious  as  France 
is  for  an  increased  population  she  offered 
every  inducement  in  the  world  to  Devereux, 
and  those  of  his  compatriots  who  frequent 
his  saloon,  to  stay  in  America.  They  had 
left  their  country  to  our  country's  detri 
ment,  true  patriots  they. 

L'Auberge,  so  Devereux  named  his  place, 
and  The  Lucky  Number  (a  saloon  one  block 
removed  from  L'Auberge  in  distance,  a  mile 
in  caste)  represent  the  two  extreme  points 
on  the  crooked  line  of  vice  :  L'Auberge 
7 


8  The  Lucky  Number 

symbolizes  the  attractiveness  of  crime,  The 
Lucky  Number  its  repulsiveness ;  the  one 
tempts  men  to  sin,  the  other  punishes  them 
when  they  fall;  a  career  of  evil  starts  in  a 
place  like  Devereux's  and  ends  in  a  place  like 
The  Lucky  Number; — so  much  for  the  spirit 
of  these  dives,  just  a  word  or  two  about  the 
letter. 

At  Devereux's  you  may  look  down  on  a 
polished  oak  floor  and  up  at  a  richly  orna 
mented  ceiling;  you  may  draw  a  cane-bot 
tom  chair,  neatly  varnished,  up  to  a  cherry- 
stained  table,  sip  your  absinthe  out  of  a 
thin,  shining  glass,  and  see  just  how  you 
look  as  you  do  it  in  the  beveled  mirror  which 
covers  the  wall  back  of  the  mahogany  bar. 
If  your  taste  run  toward  art,  you  may  in 
dulge  it  by  admiring  the  copies  in  oil  of 
Bougereau's  paintings — lioni  soit  qui  mal y 
pense. 

The  Lucky  Number  is  a  crude  study  in 
dirt,  done  in  rough  pine;  in  some  places 
this  dirt  is  thicker  than  in  others,  and  thus 
the  monotone  is  relieved, — beyond  this  there 
is  no  attempt  made  at  the  decorative.  If 


Chauvinism  at  Devereux's  9 

you  look  down  you  will  see  sawdust  and 
dust ;  if  you  look  up,  look  out  for  your  head. 

The  clientele  at  Devereux's  is  composed 
of  two  distinct  types;  the  one  is  best  de 
scribed  by  the  French  term  sale-type,  a  term 
I  prefer  to  leave  untranslated ;  the  other  is 
made  up  of  "  fine  workers, "  forgers,  counter 
feiters  and  thieves,  who  represent  the  intel 
lect  of  vice,  and  draw  the  plans  and  lay  the 
plots  for  the  muscle,  the  labor,  of  vice  to 
carry  out.  They  have  a  way,  all  their  own, 
of  covering  and  retracing  their  tracks,  which 
baffles  and  discourages  the  most  persistent 
of  sleuths.  Yet  detection  is  easy  as  com 
pared  with  arrest,  for  the  rascals  never  seem 
to  get  farther  than  the  station  steps ;  there 
they  always  pause,  lift  their  hats  in  the  most 
approved  Parisian  style,  bid  the  officers  a 
bon  soir,  and  disappear.  It  is  impossible 
not  to  admire  their  manners. 

Safe  in  jail, — when  the  police  get  them 
that  far  you  may  be  sure  they  are  safe, — 
then  the  work  has  but  begun,  for  to  con 
vict  them  is  quite  another  matter.  They 
play  a  game  of  wit,  a  game  of  which  they 


io  The  Lucky  Number 

are  past-masters,  and  one  worth  winning 
only  when  they  hold  the  bad  cards.  Let  an 
illustration  serve. 

A  complicated  plot,  finished  in  every 
detail,  was  laid  for  the  murder  of  a  miser; 
this  miser,  moreover,  was  a  Frenchman, 
and  lived  in  a  hovel  in  the  French  quar 
ter —  two  things  which  made  the  job  haz 
ardous,  nay,  foolhardy ;  because  they  would 
certainly  be  suspected  of  the  crime  an 
hour  after  its  execution.  To  let  suspicion 
fall  elsewhere  and  fall  there  naturally,  not 
to  jerk  it  there — here  is  where  the  fin 
esse,  the  adroitness  of  the  plot  centered. 
The  combined  astuteness  of  their  depraved 
minds,  fitted  by  long  training  for  such  work, 
was  taxed  to  solve  the  difficult  problem; 
but  the  solution  was  as  nice,  as  logical  and 
as  perfect  as  a  definition  in  calculus.  One 
fault  only  could  be  found,  it  was  too  nice ;  let 
the  smallest  cog  slip  by  so  much  as  a  hair's 
breadth,  and  the  ponderous  machine  would 
hurl  them  to  death  in  the  balance  wheel. 

This  they  knew,  and  their  knowledge  made 
them  shudder,  and  their  shuddering  made 


Chauvinism  at  Devereux's  n 

them  consider  and  reconsider;  finally  they 
gave  it  up;  but  it  was  fascinating,  and  the 
fascination  was  made  more  intense  by  the 
condition  of  their  purses.  They  had  had  a 
hard  winter,  ' '  un  hiver  moral, ' '  to  use  the 
expression  of  one  of  them.  Blood  was  one 
thing,  money  another,  and  they  meant  to 
have  that  miser's  money,  codte  que  codte, 
cost  what  it  might. 

But  that  one  cog  slipped — it  always  does 
somehow, — and  the  result  was  not  so  disas 
trous  as  expected ;  they  were  too  familiar  with 
machinery  of  that  kind  not  to  be  prepared 
for  accidents.  Its  every  movement  had  been 
calculated  to  a  fraction,  and  by  a  fraction 
four  of  them  escaped  its  iron  jaws.  The 
fifth,  as  accomplished  in  mathematics  as  the 
rest  but  slower  in  movement,  was  caught  by 
the  foot  and  pulled  out  by  the  police. 

The  evidence  of  these  four  was  needed  to 
convict  the  fifth,  and  the  police  and  the 
press  started  in  hot  pursuit;  but  the  four 
could  not  be  found ;  where  they  went  was  a 
mystery,  but  mystery  or  no,  they  were  gone 
—  they  had  taken  French  leave,  as  it  were. 


12  The  Lucky  Number 

The  state's  attorney  was  on  his  metal, 
for  this  was  his  first  important  case,  and  he 
wanted  to  show  the  public  of  what  stuff  he 
was  made.  He  was  ambitious,  too,  this 
state's  attorney;  his  eye  had  long  been  fixed 
upon  a  seat  on  the  Supreme  bench,  and  if  he 
missed  this  chance  he  was  likely  to  remain 
standing  where  he  now  was.  He  let  the 
police  go  their  way  and  the  press  go  its  way, 
he  pursued  the  even  tenor  of  his  own. 

He  took  the  tangled  skein  of  facts  and 
clues  in  his  prehensile  hands,  and  unravelled 
it  carefully,  bit  by  bit ;  in  the  mass  of  this 
untangled  stuff  he  discovered  one  little  thread 
which  repaid  him  for  his  hard  labor  and 
staying  awake  o'  nights.  By  that  thread  he 
gained  this  nugget  of  information ;  a  certain 
Godier  knew  the  whereabouts  of  the  foxy 
four  (such  was  the  euphonious  title  now  be 
stowed  upon  them),  and  kept  his  accom 
plices  informed  of  every  important  move 
made  by  their  arch-enemies.  This  was  the 
part  Godier  was  to  play  by  prearrangement 
— these  great  generals  of  crime  calculated  on 
victory,  but  they  made  the  necessary  pre- 


Chauvinism  at  Devereux's  13 

parations  for  a  possible  defeat.  Now  the 
thing  was  to  catch  this  Godier  and  make 
him  speak. 

He  was  located  at  Devereux's  without 
the  least  difficulty.  The  detective  who  cap 
tured  him  said,  "The  job  was  as  easy  as 
picking  a  penny  from  the  street;"  but  to 
make  him  speak,  that  was  like  lifting  a 
house  from  its  foundation. 

The  man  acted  the  deaf  mute,  and  he  acted 
like  one  created  for  the  part  by  nature. 
After  much  trouble  and  casting  about  some 
one  was  found  who  could  speak  French  and 
read  the  deaf  and  dumb  alphabet,  but  that 
some  one  could  not  understand  Godier,  who 
spoke  a  digital  patois. 

They  put  him  in  the  sweat-box  and 
turned  the  steam  on  at  full  force,  but  never 
a  word  could  they  sweat  out  of  him.  Then 
they  tried  to  flatter  him  to  speech  by  the 
liberal  application  of  a  club,  but  his  tongue 
did  not  prove  susceptible  to  flattery.  He 
gesticulated  violently,  he  writhed  and 
turned  with  the  agility  of  a  contortionist, 
but  he  would  not  speak;  he  ground  his  set 


14  The  Lucky  Number 

teeth,  he  became  blue  in  the  face,  he  buried 
his  long  finger  nails  in  the  flesh  of  his  palms, 
his  throat  seemed  bursting  in  a  convulsive 
effort  at  speech,  but  not  even  a  monosyl 
lable  did  he  utter.  The  expression  on  his 
countenance,  the  pathetic  appeal  of  his  dumb 
lips,  the  muscular  contraction  of  his  throat 
made  the  pantomime  appalling.  If  you 
have  ever  seen  a  mute  trying  to  call  for 
assistance  when  in  danger,  you  can  form 
an  idea  of  how  Godier  conducted  himself 
through  the  ordeal. 

The  state's  attorney  sickened  at  the  cruel 
performance  and  he  ordered  it  to  be  stopped. 
He  began  to  question  the  possibility,  not  to 
say  probability,  of  a  mere  sham  withstand 
ing  the  fierce  rays  of  such  a  powerful  search 
light  without  discovering  his  mask.  Yet  to 
believe  the  rascal's  dumbness  other  than  a 
feint  was  to  acknowledge  the  hopelessness  of 
the  case.  That  seat  on  the  Supreme  bench 
seemed  farther  away  than  in  the  distant  day 
of  his  dreamy  youth.  With  hands  crossed  be 
hind  his  back,  he  paced  up  and  down  his  office 
restlessly,  and  urged  his  brain  with  whip 


Chauvinism  at  Devereux's  15 

and  lash.  In  the  throes  of  intellectuality 
his  thought  gave  birth  to  an  idea — ah,  there 
was  an  easier  and  less  painful  way  of  bring 
ing  this  mute  to  speech ! 

He  released  Godier,  and  sent  for  a  detec 
tive  by  the  name  of  Gilchrist.  Gilchrist, 
a  Canadian  of  French  descent,  had  this  in 
his  favor:  he  spoke  French  fluently,  and  he 
was  tenacious.  "I  am  a  tenacious  bird, 
I  am,"  were  the  words  constantly  on  his 
lips.  Tenacity  was  the  one  quality  the 
state's  attorney  pinned  his  faith  to,  and  this 
is  why  he  sent  for  Gilchrist.  Aside  from 
the  undue  development  of  this  one  trait,  he 
was  an  ordinary  mortal  endowed  with  but 
little  more  than  ordinary  acumen;  he  was 
not  one  of  those  superhuman  detectives, 
existing  only  in  the  minds  of  fictionists,  who 
start  with  a  speck  of  dust  and  end  with 
the  creation  of  a  cosmos. 

When  released,  Godier  made  straight  for 
L'Auberge;  at  first  blush  this  may  seem 
madness,  but  reflect  a  little  and  you  will  see 
method.  When  he  entered,  Gilchrist,  who 
had  preceded  him,  was  reading  Le  Carica- 


1 6  The  Lucky  Number 

ture  with  an  apparently  absorbing  interest. 
"There's  the  mute,"  the  detective  heard 
some  one  behind  him  say  in  a  low  voice,  and 
this  was  the  only  comment  passed  on  Go- 
dier's  sudden  acquittal;  it  was  evidently 
taken  as  a  matter  of  course.  The  detective 
watched  (well,  do  you  know  how  detectives 
watch?  They  watch  as  a  cat  watches  a 
mouse),  but  he  never  saw  so  much  as  a  sur 
reptitious  glance  pass  between  the  mute  and 
his  boon  companions.  The  tongue-tied 
wretch  seated  himself  at  the  nearest  table, 
put  his  doubled  fist  to  his  mouth  and 
tossed  back  his  head ;  Devereux  understood 
what  all  this  meant,  for  he  placed  a  pint  of 
claret  and  a  glass  on  the  table,  and  the  mute 
nodded  approval. 

Gilchrist,  like  the  state's  attorney,  was  now 
besieged  by  doubt ;  he  did  not  know  at  first 
whether  to  believe  the  man  a  mute,  or  not  to 
believe  it.  A  second  afterwards  he  chided 
himself  for  being  such  a  credulous  fool.  Here 
he  was  just  launching  himself  on  an  expedi 
tion  for  discovery,  and  doubting  the  exist 
ence  of  the  object  of  his  quest.  He  needed 


Chauvinism  at  Devereux's  17 

no  other  spur  than  his  own  scolding  to  stir 
him  to  action;  he  arose  and  planted  himself 
in  front  of  his  prey,  leaned  over  and  whis 
pered  in  good  French,  "I  have  an  important 
message  from  the  four."  The  mute  looked 
up  with  an  expression  of  dumb  amazement, 
the  others  tried  to  hide  their  laughter  in 
their  sleeves ;  one  of  them,  a  fellow  of  some 
wit,  remarked,  "He  doesn't  speak — French, 
sir."  The  detective  tried  hard  not  to  ap 
pear  disconcerted,  lounged  around  a  while 
and  left.  "Laugh  at  him,  did  they?  he 
would  show  them  before  long  that  the  last 
laugh  is  the  merriest." 

For  the  next  two  days  he  shadowed  the 
place  without  entering;  he  was  waiting  out 
side  for  an  inspiration,  and  when  the  inspira 
tion  came  he  was  going  inside,  and  that  "jail 
bird"  should  speak  or  he  would  pull  his 
tongue  out  by  the  roots. 

Meanwhile,  the  state's  attorney  was  suf 
fering  from  nervous  depression,  brought  on 
by  the  fear  that  his  crown  would  be  one  of 
ridicule  instead  of  glory.  He  summoned 
Gilchrist  and  lectured  him.  Three  whole 


1 8  The  Lucky  Number 

days  had  passed,  and  he  had  not  discovered 
anything  worthy  of  even  reporting  at  head 
quarters.  How  did  he  spend  his  time,  sleep 
ing?  If  he  didn't  wake  up,  and  wake  up 
with  a  start,  he  would  have  him  discharged 
then  and  there.  He  gradually  assumed  a 
pleasant  tone,  promising  to  use  his  influence 
for  the  sleuth's  promotion,  if  he  but  made 
Godier  speak.  "For  once,"  he  finished, 
with  a  quiet  smile,  "speech  is  golden,  and 
silence  is  silver;  remember  it." 

Humiliated  by  the  lecture,  but  animated 
by  the  prize,  Gilchrist  walked  out  of  the 
office,  meekly  muttering,  "I  am  a  tenacious 
bird,  I  am," — which  was  his  way  of  pray 
ing  for  inspiration,  for  the  quality  of  tenac 
ity,  he  thought,  must  appeal  to  the  Lord, 
when  all  else  failed.  The  inspiration  came, 
and  it  came,  as  inspirations  will,  at  the  most 
unexpected  time  and  in  the  most  unexpected 
manner,  just  when  his  heart  grew  sick  from 
hope  deferred. 

He  fretted  and  fumed  two  more  valuable 
days  away  shadowing  Devereux's,  and  he 
was  about  as  tired,  disgusted  and  blue  as  it 


Chauvinism  at  Devereux's  19 

is  possible  for  any  mortal  to  be.  This  hang 
ing  around  for  an  inspiration  was  a  poor 
business  and,  tenacious  as  he  was,  he  had 
had  enough  of  it — Gilchrist  wanted  more 
substance  and  less  shadow. 

He  walked  home,  donned  a  disguise, —  it 
goes  without  saying  that  he  was  an  adept 
at  disguises, — and  made  for  L'Auberge. 
He  had  met  with  such  a  thing  as  luck  in 
his  career,  and  he  trusted  to  meet  it  again 
that  night  at  Devereux's. 

He  was  striding  thither  in  the  darkness, 
when  he  bumped  into  a  negro  carrying  a 
mongrel  musical  instrument  on  his  back. 
The  "tenacious  bird"  shoved  him  aside  im 
patiently  and  hurried  on. 

"By  God,  I  have  it!"  he  said,  running 
back  far  more  quickly  than  he  had  moved 
forward. 

"See  here,  'dingy,'  can  you  play  this 
tune?"  Gilchrist  whistled  a  few  bars  of 
a  well  known  air. 

'  'Deed  I  can,  boss!  I  know  de  tune,  but 
not  de  name,"  said  the  negro,  starting  to 
take  the  instrument  from  his  back. 


2O  The  Lucky  Number 

"Never  mind  that;  let's  see  if  you  can 
whistle  the  tune." 

He  whistled  it  better  than  Gilchrist  had 
done.  The  detective  pressed  a  silver  dollar 
in  this  wandering  minstrel's  hand;  he  could 
be  generous  when  occasion  demanded. 

"Do  you  know  where  Devereux's  place 
is?" 

"Where  all  dem  Frenchies  is?  down 
there  between — " 

' '  Exactly,  go  there  and  play.  Play  any 
thing  you  have  a  mind  to  play,  but  don't 
start  that  tune  until  I  come,  and  when  I 
come  don't  play  it  until  I  step  on  your  foot. 
You  understand,  not  until  I  step  on  your 
foot.  One  word  more,  you  don't  know  me, 
and  you  never  saw  me  before." 

He  held  another  dollar  to  the  light,  "If 
you  do  the  right  thing,  this  is  yours;  go 
ahead,  and  I'll  follow." 

The  negro's  instrument  has  been  called 
mongrel  because  I  know  of  no  better  adjec 
tive  to  describe  the  contrivance.  It  was  a 
combination  of  everything  that  makes  ac 
cordant  sound,  and  discordant,  too,  for  that 


Chauvinism  at  Devereux's          21 

matter;  cymbal  and  harp,  trumpet  and 
mouth-organ,  and  drum  and  fife — all  were  in 
cluded.  The  simultaneous  use  of  feet, 
hands  and  mouth  was  required,  and  one 
needed  to  be  a  born  musician  as  well  as  a 
born  gymnast  to  play  it. 

The  minstrel  almost  knocked  Gilchrist's 
best  laid  plans  into  a  cocked  hat  by  starting 
his  performance  at  L'Auberge  with  "Die 
Wacht  Am  Rhein;"  luckily  he  saw  his  mis 
take,  made  evident  by  hisses  and  groans, 
and  he  substituted  "Yankee  Doodle,"  fol 
lowed  by  ' '  Hail  Columbia ; ' '  this  the  patrons 
liked  better  and  they  applauded. 

At  this  point  Gilchrist  stepped  in — he  ap 
peared  excited  and  out  of  breath.  Had 
they  heard  the  news?  War  had  been  de 
clared  in  France!  Guns  had  been  fired! 
Troops  were  mobilized !  The  navy  was  on 
the  move!  German  soldiers  had  marched 
into  Madagascar!  He  had  just  seen  the 
announcement  on  a  special  bulletin  in  the 
Tribune  office. 

They  jumped  from  their  seats  and  crowd 
ed  near  him.  He  glanced  around;  Godier 
was  there  with  the  rest ;  so  far  so  good. 


22  The  Lucky  Number 

''I  must  hasten,"  he  said,  "before  dawn 
every  Frenchman  in  the  city  must  know  it." 
Then  came  a  torrent  of  wherefores  and 
whys  and  whens. 

The  detective  knew  that  the  characteristic 
of  the  Gallic  mind  is  to  excite  itself  first  and 
to  reason  afterwards,  and  he  answered  accord 
ingly,  but  his  answers  were  consistent ;  they 
came  as  swiftly  as  their  queries  and  more 
swiftly,  but  thus  far  not  a  question  from 
Godier;  did  he  smell  a  rat? 

The  news  spread ;  men,  women  and  child 
ren  came  rushing  in  from  all  directions ;  the 
place  became  so  crowded  that  one  could 
hardly  turn.  Gilchrist  never  had  known  that 
there  were  so  many  French  out  of  France. 
A  throng  gathered  outside,  and  Devereux 
shut  the  doors,  begging  them  to  make  less 
noise,  saying,  "The  police  will  shut  me  up 
for  a  public  nuisance,  if  you  keep  on  yelling. ' ' 

Gilchrist  started  to  go.  "There  was  much 
to  be  done,  there  were  other  places  besides 
this."  They  held  him  by  the  coat,  "Just  a 
word,  just  one  word  more." 


Chauvinism  at  Devereux's  23 

"Well,  he  would  remain  long  enough  to 
drink  to  France  and  to  victory. ' '  He  laid  a 
crisp  bill  on  the  bar.  "A  drink  for  every  one 
out  of  that;  "  who  would  be  stingy  on  such 
an  occasion  ?  He  filled  the  glasses  and  cried, 
' '  Vive  la  France  !  Vive  la  France  !  a  bas  les 
Allemands!"  They  took  up  the  cry  in 
unison";  you  could  have  heard  it  blocks  and 
blocks  away.  This  enthusiasm  warmed 
their  blood  and  made  them  recklessly  gener 
ous;  then  the  corks  began  to  fly.  It  was  a 
banner  day  for  Devereux — nothing  like  war 
for  his  business.  The  more  they  drank  the 
louder  they  yelled,  and  the  louder  they 
yelled  the  more  they  drank. 

And  Godier?  He  was  the  one  silent  indi 
vidual  in  the  place,  was  Godier,  but  he  un 
derstood  and  heard — Gilchrist  could  tell  that 
from  his  ears. 

Now  or  never.  The  "tenacious  bird" 
touched  the  negro's  foot  and  the  Marseillaise 
began  with  a  vim ;  the  musician  was  playing 
for  a  dollar,  and  he  wanted  to  give  a  dollar's 
worth.  The  angel  Gabriel  appearing  there 
in  person  and  blowing  the  Marseillaise  on 


24  The  Lucky  Number 

his  celestial  trumpet  could  not  have  evoked 
more  wonder  and  surprise,  so  suddenly  and 
so  unexpectedly  did  the  music  burst  forth. 
Gilchrist  made  the  best  of  a  rare  oppor 
tunity,  and  shouted  rather  than  sang  the 
opening  strophe  of  the  battle  hymn: 

"Ye  sons  of  freedom,  wake  to  glory, 

Hark!  hark!  what  myriads  bid  you  rise! 
Your  children,  wives,  and  grandsires  hoary, 
Behold  their  tears,  and  hear  their  cries!  " 

The  first  was  all  he  sang  unaccompanied, 
then  the  others  took  it  up,  and  how  they 
took  it  up.  They  threw  their  arms  around 
each  other  and  whirled  about  in  patriotic 
ecstasy;  they  sang  and  shouted  and 
screamed  with  all  their  might  and  all  their 
main.  Chairs  and  tables  were  smashed  be 
yond  the  hope  of  repair,  and  Devereux  did 
not  even  cry  halt;  he  urged  them  on  by 
his  own  example.  When  it  came  to  the 
chorus : 

"To  arms!  to  arms!  ye  brave  ! 
The  avenging  sword  unsheathe; 
March  on  !  march  on 
To  victory  or  death  ! 
To  victory  or  death  !" — 


Chauvinism  at  Devereux's          25 

he  fired  glass  after  glass  on  the  floor  from 
behind  the  bar.  Old  Planard,  "the  lame 
devil,"  who  had  lost  a  leg  in  the  last 
war  and  was  proud  of  it,  kept  time  with 
his  wooden  stump;  the  dull  thud  of  that 
stump  was  the  one  sound  discernible  in  the 
uproar. 

Exiles,  castaways,  most  of  them,  they 
were  pouring  all  their  woes,  all  their  hatred, 
all  their  regrets,  all  their  homesickness,  all 
that  was  bad  and  all  that  was  good  in  them, 
into  the  stirring  verses  of  the  Marseillaise; 
every  word  was  a  key  which  opened  the  shut 
chambers  of  their  hearts  to  long,  long  vistas 
of  a  happier  past.  Women  were  sobbing 
hysterically,  and  children  were  clinging  to 
their  mothers  in  fright ;  but  the  battle-hymn 
went  on  and  on,  and  gathered  force  as  it 
went. 

The  negro  was  carried  away  by  the  spirit 
of  the  others,  and  he  made  that  mongrel  in 
strument  do  the  work  of  a  band,  and  do  it 
well.  The  sweat  rolled  down  his  face,  the 
veins  on  the  top  of  his  bald  head  swelled 
to  a  violet  blue ;  it  seemed  that  his  cheeks 


26  The  Lucky  Number 

would  crack  from  the  blowing,  and  that  his 
eyes  would  fall  from  their  sockets. 

The  Marseillaise  had  aroused  their  fathers 
to  deeds  of  heroism ;  it  was  the  song  of  the 
Revolution,  it  was  the  song  of  France,  it  was 
the  battle-hymn  of  the  Republic ;  thousands 
and  thousands  had  died  with  those  precious 
words  on  their  lips,  and  thousands  and  tens 
of  thousands  had  marched  with  everlasting 
glory  to  the  strains  of  that  thrilling  melody. 
And  they  —  they  would  sing  until  their 
hearts  sank  from  exhaustion,  and  their 
voices  ceased  forever. 

What  a  pandemonium  it  was!  But  there 
was  all  the  sublimity  of  a  storm,  all  the 
grandeur  which  follows  in  the  wake  of  light 
ning  and  thunder,  when  the  heavens  open 
and  send  their  heavy  artillery  plunging  down 
the  vast  skies. 

The  Ausgelassenheit — the  abandon, — how 
it  ravished,  how  it  intoxicated,  how  it  en 
tranced  !  No  man  could  resist  the  magnetism, 
the  spell  of  such  a  divine  madness.  Godier, 
the  cautious,  the  crafty,  the  circumspect 
Godier,  was  swept  away  by  patriotic  fervor, 


Chauvinism  at  Devereux's          27 

and  when  they  reached  the  flaming  appeal  of 
the  lines: 

"And  lo!  our  fields  and  cities  blaze, 
And  shall  we  basely  view  the  ruin, 

While  lawless  force,  with  guilty  stride, 
Spreads  desolation  far  and  wide, 

With  crime  and  blood  its  hands  embuing. 
To  arms!  to  arms!  ye  brave!" — 

he  joined  in  vociferously. 

The  detective  knew  not  whether  to  laugh 
at  him  or  cry  for  him ;  Gilchrist's  French 
blood  had  been  heated  to  the  boiling  point 
by  the  flames  of  this  glowing  fire  of  patriot 
ism,  and  he  was  as  thoroughly  in  earnest  as 
the  rest.  Only  by  fooling  himself  had  he 
fooled  Godier;  for  the  mute,  suspecting  a 
trap  from  the  very  first,  had  turned  the 
strong  damper  of  his  will  against  the  expand 
ing  heat  of  his  emotions  that  threatened  to 
tear  him  open  unless  he  gave  them  vent ;  but 
when  he  saw  Gilchrist  singing  with  an  en 
thusiasm  too  intense  to  be  simulated, —  and 
he  was  too  shrewd  an  observer  to  be  tricked 
by  a  spurious  article, — his  suspicions  became 
disarmed,  and  he  threw  the  safety-valve 
wide  open  and  let  the  steam  escape. 


28  The  Lucky  Number 

His  lusty  voice  and  vigorous  lungs,  like 
the  arrival  of  fresh  cohorts  to  fatigued 
troops,  stimulated  his  countrymen,  who 
were  beginning  to  flag  from  sheer  weariness, 
to  greater  efforts  than  had  yet  been  achieved. 
The  chandeliers  shook,  actually  shook,  and 
the  very  walls  vibrated  from  the  onslaught 
of  the  waves  of  sound. 

The  police,  dressed  in  citizens'  clothes, 
filed  in  one  by  one,  but  they  were  as  little 
heeded  as  the  poor  flies  which  went  buzzing 
about  the  room  distractedly,  and  which  had 
been  shocked  out  of  their  hibernation  by  the 
clatter  and  din. 

They  were  singing  the  chorus  for  the  last 
time,  and  they  gathered  all  their  remaining 
force  and  vigor  to  make  the  words  signifi 
cant.  They  sang  those  verses  as  the  rabble, 
marching  towards  Versailles  in  the  stormy 
days  of  the  revolution,  must  have  sung 
them.  This  last  chorus,  if  I  may  so  phrase 
it,  was  a  crescendo  that  progressed  geomet 
rically,  a  wave  which  gathered  the  multi 
plied  force  of  every  other  wave  that  preced 
ed  it,  and  towered  above  them  all  mountain 


Chauvinism  at  Devereux's          29 

high.  You  would  have  thought  they  were 
singing  on  the  battle-fields  amid  the  clash 
ing  of  swords,  the  blowing  of  bugles,  the 
screaming  of  shells  and  the  roaring  of 
cannon;  nay,  you  would  have  heard  the 
exultant  shout  of  a  victorious  army  drown 
ing  the  agonizing  cries  of  the  defeated,  the 
bleeding,  the  wounded  and  the  dying. 

Then  they  were  silent,  and  the  silence 
was  as  expressive  as  the  song — you  could 
have  heard  the  quivering  of  an  aspen  leaf. 

Gilchrist  grasped  Godier  by  the  shoulder. 
Poor  Godier!  he  felt  his  mistake  intuitively. 
The  police  pressed  forward  and  pushed  the 
crowd  back. 

What  a  triumph  for  Gilchrist !  For  him  it 
was  the  apotheosis  of  tenacity.  He  would 
not  have  been  a  Frenchman  had  he  not 
ended  the  third  act  of  this  drama  with  an 
epigram.  "Gentlemen,"  said  he,  "the  Mar 
seillaise  is  the  greatest  general  of  France, 
under  its  leadership  I  have  captured  the 
enemy." 


Rouge  et  Noir 

HE  held  his  last  dime  tightly  in  his 
closed  fist,  and  elbowed  his  way  to 
the  dealer's  table  through  the  ragged  crowd 
of  vagabonds  of  all  descriptions  and  occupa 
tions  (save  honest  ones),  who  jostled  and 
pushed  to  gain  the  coigns  of  vantage  near 
the  wheel.  The  place — filthy,  bare,  reeking 
with  the  smell  of  cheap  whisky  and  still 
cheaper  tobacco  —  was  in  perfect  keeping 
with  its  patrons.  The  only  things  in  the 
room,  either  ornamental  or  useful,  were  the 
gambling  implements  and  the  large  kerosene 
lamp  suspended  from  the  ceiling,  which  gave 
forth  a  little,  dim,  flickering  light  and  much 
foul  odor. 

He  bet  on  the  red,  held  his  breath  and 

shut  his  eyes,  not  daring  to  look ;  that  dime 

symbolized    a  lodging    for  the    night,    and 

outside  the  blizzard  was  playing  the  deuce 

30 


Rouge  et  Noir  31 

with  thinly  clad,  overcoatless  wretches  like 
himself. 

The  wheel  stopped  with  a  loud  clack — 
red !  He  had  won — the  goddess  of  luck  be 
praised  for  that.  He  tucked  this  open 
sesame  to  Black  Tom's  Cave  of  Comfort  (a 
basement  lodging  house,  or  better,  a  heap  of 
bunks  in  a  basement)  way  down  in  the 
pocket  of  what  was  once  a  vest,  and  bet 
again. 

It  was  for  a  supper  this  time.  A  full  sup 
per,  from  soup  to  coffee,  can  be  had  for 
eight  cents  by  those  who  know  where  to  go, 
and  who  are  contented  with  the  quality  of 
the  soup,  the  coffee,  and  what  comes  between 
— the  quantity  is  always  satisfactory.  No 
food  had  crossed  his  lips  all  day,  and  the 
issue  between  red  and  black  made  an  empty 
stomach  palpitate  with  fear  and  excitement. 

Red!  and  the  supper  was  his,  and  he 
smacked  his  lips  with  a  pregustatory  relish 
— that  coffee.  For  once  in  his  ill-starred  life 
luck  was  favoring  him,  and  he  meant  to 
seize  the  opportunity.  He  doubled  his 
stakes, — the  wheel  stopped  square  at  the  red. 


32  The  Lucky  Number 

He  tripled  his  stakes;  bed,  lodging,  sup 
per,  cigar,  whiskey  (luxuries  unknown  to 
him  for  months)  and  all !  A  whirl ! — and  the 
wheel  started  again.  He  cursed  himself 
inwardly  for  being  such  a  hazardous  fool  and 
not  knowing  when  to  stop.  If  he  had  saved 
only  bed  and  supper,  and  had  bet  the  rest ! 
Thrice  around  sped  the  circle  glowing  with 
color.  It  stopped,  wavered  a  second  be 
tween  the  two,  as  if  hesitating  whether  to 
throw  this  dare-devil  supperless  into  the 
cold,  or  let  him  revel  in  luxury ;  then  the  red 
had  it.  Eyes  from  all  parts  of  the  room  shot 
envious  glances  at  him — eager,  wolfish  eyes, 
aglow  with  want  and  hunger.  Why  couldn't 
they  have  luck  like  that? 

He  grew  reckless,  the  tide  was  flowing  his 
way,  and  on  it  he  meant  to  ride  to  fortune; 
he  bet  against  all  kinds  of  odds  and  still  the 
red,  always  the  red.  "He  has  charmed  the 
wheel,"  muttered  some  one. 

The  dealer  had  enough  of  this  fool,  fa 
vored  by  fortune  as  all  fools  are,  and  he 
cried  halt.  The  lucky  gamester,  envied  but 
reviled  by  the  unlucky,  made  his  way  to  the 


Rouge  et  Noir  33 

door,  jingling  the  silver  in  his  pocket,  and 
imagining  all  kinds  of  delightful  tastes  and 
sensations. 

All  this  was  the  empty  dream  of  a  poor 
devil  awakened  from  a  restless  sleep  by  the 
gnawing  pains  of  hunger.  A  second  or  two 
passed  before  he  could  fully  realize  that  it 
was  all  a  dream,  and  he  even  smacked  his 
lips  once  or  twice  like  one  who  has  eaten 
heartily  of  substantial  food — so  vividly  had 
he  seen  these  things  in  his  mind's  eye. 

He  sat  upright  and  tried  to  think.  A 
sudden  bump  on  the  head  recalled  him  from 
the  mimic  world  of  dreams  to  the  real  world 
of  facts  and  things.  There  he  was  ex 
hausted  from  hunger,  trying  to  sleep  in  one 
of  the  upper  bunks  in  The  Cave  of  Comfort. 
He  lay  flat  on  his  back,  pressed  his  hands 
to  his  stomach  and  moaned.  If  that  dream 
were  only  true.  He  tried  to  sleep  again, 
but  the  heavy  snoring  of  the  drunken  or 
worn-out  sleepers,  who  were  piled  around 
him  on  all  sides  like  so  much  lumber,  kept 
him  awake.  He  was  cold,  too,  and  the 
basement  air  chilled  him  to  the  bone,  de- 


34  The  Lucky  Number 

spite  the  heavy  horse  blanket,  and  the  fact 
that  he  had  on  every  stitch  of  his  clothing — 
the  only  way  to  keep  clothes  in  such  a  place. 

The  little  wood  stove  in  the  corner  threw 
out  all  smoke  and  no  heat,  the  atmosphere 
(used  to  it  as  he  was)  choked  him,  and  he 
started  to  cough,  when  an  ominous  growl 
from  the  bunk  below  warned  him  to  keep  his 
cough  to  himself.  By  way  of  distraction  he 
fastened  his  sight  on  the  flame  of  the  small 
lamp,  burning  low,  which  stood  at  the  door 
way  near  the  seat  of  Black  Tom,  the  Cer 
berus  of  this  Hades.  The  longer  he  watched, 
the  brighter  seemed  the  flame  that  circled 
around  the  glass  chimney  like  a  red  hoop  of 
living  fire.  Red  again — it  was  the  finger  of 
fortune  beckoning  him  on. 

Like  a  man  moved  by  divine  impetus,  he 
left  all  consequences  out  of  reckoning  and 
clambered  down.  Black  Tom,  sitting  half 
asleep  on  his  stool  near  the  door,  grumbled 
a  little,  lifted  his  lamp  from  the  floor,  and 
let  him  out.  The  man  of  fortune  pulled 
himself  up  the  basement  steps  and  found 
himself  in  the  deserted  streets. 


Rouge  et  Noir  35 

He  had  been  in  the  cold  but  a  minute  and 
he  was  shaking  from  head  to  foot,  his  teeth 
chattering,  and  every  limb  trembling  as  if 
palsy-stricken.  Thin  veiling  would  have 
been  about  as  much  protection  as  those 
clothes  of  his,  and  then  he  had  an  empty 
stomach  and  a  system  wasted  by  hunger 
and  exhaustion. 

Too  weak  to  move,  he  rested  against  a 
lamp-post,  wondering  what  crazy  notion  had 
made  him  forsake  a  warm,  comfortable  bed 
(all  things  go  by  comparison)  for  that  bleak, 
bitter  cold  street.  Fortune,  luck  —  those 
were  things  in  which  fools  and  capitalists 
should  believe. 

A  clock  from  the  tower  of  the  neighboring 
depot  struck  ten  clear,  resonant  strokes 
through  the  frosty  air;  he  had  believed  the 
hour  to  be  much  later  on  account  of  the  de 
serted  appearance  of  the  street;  but  in 
weather  like  this  every  rat  that  has  a  hole 
crawls  into  it  for  shelter.  Ten  o'clock — well, 
there  might  be  hope  yet. 

Three  jolly  fellows,  evidently  the  worse  for 
an  evening  of  intense  gayety,  staggered  past. 


36  The  Lucky  Number 

The  seeker  of  fortune  tried  to  look  more 
wretched  than  he  was  (difficult  task)  and 
begged  for  charity  with  a  piteous  tale. 
There  was  a  slight  patter  of  silver  on  the 
pavement,  more  welcome  to  the  beggar's 
ears  than  a  symphony  from  heaven.  It  was 
a  dime !  A  strip  of  red,  shaped  like  an  in 
verted  V,  seemed  to  spurt  from  the  sky  to 
the  ground. 

The  coin  acted  like  a  draught  of  new  wine 
on  his  enervated  system ;  fed  by  the  promise 
of  his  dream  he  felt  as  if  he  had  dined  like  a 
king,  and  through  his  stiff  cramped  body  a 
current  of  fresh  life  began  to  run. 

He  moved  cautiously  but  quickly  down 
the  dark  alley  like  one  afraid  of  some  lurk 
ing  danger,  but  yet  familiar  with  his  way. 
The  gambling  den  of  his  dream  was  the  ob 
ject  of  his  search,  and  for  it  he  made 
straightway.  Three  short,  quick  raps,  the 
slipping  of  a  heavy  bolt,  and  the  door 
opened  from  within.  The  room,  faces, 
positions,  lights  and  shadows,  perspective 
and  all,  seemed  copied  from  the  picture  of 
his  dream. 


Rouge  et  Noir  37 

He  pressed  forward  with  a  certain  swagger 
of  self-confidence  and  bet  his  dime  on  the 
red ;  not  in  the  least  disturbed  by  the  deal 
er's  sarcastic  smile  at  the  insignificant  stake. 

A  whirr! — red  and  black  coalesced  and 
separated,  separated  and  coalesced  so 
quickly  and  so  continually  that  no  eye 
could  follow.  The  wheel  slowed  down, 
oscillated  a  second  or  two,  and  then  stopped. 
"And  the  black  has  it,"  sang  out  the  dealer 
in  a  voice  that  plainly  said  "and  I  knew  it." 
The  dreamer  of  beautiful  dreams,  with  fists 
firmly  clenched,  head  bent  down,  and  a  curse 
on  his  lips,  slunk  back  into  the  bleak  street, 
his  faith  in  dreams  lost  forever. 


A  Monger  of  Ballads 

"I    can    make    chansons,  ballades,  lais,  virelais, 
roundels,  and  I  am  very  fond  of  wine." 

— A  LODGING  FOR  THE  NIGHT. 

AN  emaciated  body  covered  with  filthy 
rags;  a  repqlsive  face  pinched  and 
puckered  by  want  and  disease ;  half-shut  life 
less  eyes  that  peered  cautiously  from  two 
deep-sunken  sockets ;  a  sensual  red  nose,  that 
seemed  to  droop  rather  than  curve  over  an 
unusually  large  mouth — such  was  Charcoal, 
the  abstract  and  brief  chronicle  of  the  vice 
of  the  slums.  Hated  by  thieves  and  thugs 
for  the  cowardice  that  made  him  a  lackey 
for  the  lowest  vagabonds,  he  represented 
something  below  zero  on  the  social  ther 
mometer  of  the  district. 

Had  you  cast  a  single  glance  at  him,  as 
he  sat  busily  writing  at  a  table  in  one  corner 
of   The    Lucky    Number,  you    would  have, 
38 


A  Monger  of  Ballads  39 

understood  why  he  was  dubbed  Charcoal  by 
the  birds  of  his  own  black  feather. 

He  was  evidently  absorbed  in  what  he 
was  doing,  so  absorbed  that  he  never 
stopped  to  sip  from  the  huge  schooner  of 
beer  that  foamed  temptingly  at  his  elbow. 
There  was  little  to  disturb  him,  for  it  was  the 
hour  when  honest  people  start  to  work ;  the 
slums  were  still  wrapped  in  drunken  sleep, 
the  saloon  was  empty,  and  the  scribe  toiled 
on  in  comparative  quiet  and  seclusion. 

Finally  he  threw  his  stub  of  a  pencil  on 
the  floor,  leaned  far  back  in  his  chair,  gave 
a  long  yawn  of  satisfaction,  and  sipped  his 
beer,  as  a  god,  ''careless  of  mankind,"  re 
clines  on  the  hills  and  sips  nectar.  The 
beer  gone  and  the  schooner  turned  upside 
down  to  discover  a  single  drop  lurking  in 
the  bottom,  he  took  the  greasy,  brown  paper 
in  his  still  greasier  fingers  and  examined  his 
work  with  a  critical  cock  of  his  crossed  eyes. 
He  seemed  satisfied  for  he  smiled, — if  the 
facial  gymnastic  that  drew  one  lip  up  to 
wards  the  nose  and  the  other  down  towards 
the  chin,  could  be  called  a  smile. 


40  The  Lucky  Number 

"Something  funny?"  asked  Mike  the 
bartender,  who  had  been  watching  him 
closely  from  behind  the  bar.  Mike  was  the 
only  man  in  the  district  who  ever  spoke  to 
Charcoal  without  punctuating  his  remarks 
with  a  kick  or  a  curse;  for  Mike  marvelled 
how  a  man  unacquainted  with  soap  and 
white  shirts  could  master  the  occult  science  of 
writing — '  'where  ignorance  is  bliss. ' '  More 
over,  this  same  Michael  had  seen  such  writ 
ing  converted  into  money  (a  thing  that 
happens  rarely,  even  in  the  slums),  and  the 
pecuniary  consideration  in  no  wise  lessened 
his  reverence. 

"No-op,"  was  the  answer  to  the  barten 
der's  query,  "it's  something  serious." 

"I  likes  'em  humorous;  now  that  er  un  of 
yourn,  "Steve  O'Donnel's  Wake,"  was  a 
corker;"  then,  as  if  to  bear  out  his  state 
ment,  he  sang  in  a  raucous  voice,  the  chorus: 

"There  was  fighters,  there  was  biters 
There  was  tough,  old  dynamiters 
At  Steve  O'Donnel's  wake." 

"Trash,  miserable  trash!  "yelled  the  maker 
of  ballads.  "I  wrote  it  for  the  amusement 


A  Monger  of  Ballads  41 

of  ignorant  wretches,  and  I'm  ashamed  of 
myself;  I  never  want  to  hear  it  again!"  and 
down  came  the  clenched  fist  on  the  table. 

Mike  was  so  surprised  at  this  unwonted 
outburst  that  he  passed  no  remark  on  the 
schooner  which  fell  on  the  floor,  shattered 
to  pieces. 

"I  can  beat  it  easily,  I  can  write  some 
thing  worthy  of  a  man  far  better  than  I  am. 
Listen!" 

He  rose  to  his  feet,  his  dead  eyes  spark 
ling  with  the  fire  of  life,  his  cheeks  flushing 
perceptibly,  his  hands  trembling  with  excite 
ment,  as  he  stood  with  chest  out  and  should 
ers  back,  the  position  of  one  who  respects 
himself.  The  metamorphosis  was  complete; 
inspiration  turned  him,  for  the  nonce,  into 
something  like  a  man. 

"Can  that  be  Charcoal?"  thought  Mike. 

In  a  quivering,  high-pitched  voice  he  read 
his  song;  a  pathetic  ditty,  gracefully  told. 
It  was  the  story  of  an  old  man  who  passed 
up  and  down  the  little  street  of  a  village,  day 
in,  day  out,  playing  the  same  old  tune  on  a 
crazy  fiddle.  The  children  mocked  him, 


42  The  Lucky  Number 

older  people  called  him  crazy;  but  the  old 
man,  never  heeding  them,  played  on,  stub 
bornly  refusing  to  tell  what  the  spirit  that 
moved  him  was.  But  one  day  their  rude 
treatment  arousing  his  anger,  he  turned 
suddenly  and  spoke:  — 

"It's  the  tune  that  I  played  to  my  daughter, 

It's  the  tune  that  my  Nell  loved  best; 
I  play  and  I  seem  to  see  her, 
My  Nell  in  her  grave  at  rest." 

They  never  troubled  him  after  that,  and  he 
went  his  way  unmolested:  — 

"And  never  his  tune  has  varied, 

Not  once  in  many  a  year. 
It's  the  same  old  tune  that  he  fiddles, 
It's  the  same  old  tune  that  we  hear." 

You  have  seen  a  spring  send  water,  pure 
and  undefiled,  bubbling  up  through  a  mass 
of  decayed,  slimy  vegetation — this  tramp 
and  his  song  present  an  analogy. 

"Good,"  spake  Mike,  when  the  reader  sat 
down  mopping  his  brow  with  a  rag  which 
did  duty  for  a  handkerchief;  "good;  have 
one  on  me."  And  waiving  the  formality  of 
an  acceptance,  he  filled  a  schooner  to  the 
brim  and  placed  it  on  the  bar. 


A  Monger  of  Ballads  43 

The  poet  paid  no  attention  to  this  gen 
erosity,  not  established  by  precedent,  and 
sat  lost  in  reverie,  tapping  the  pine  table 
with  his  fingers  to  the  tune  of  something 
that  beat  in  a  corner  of  his  brain. 

"Does  yer  want  me  to  bring  it  to  yer  on 
a  silver  tray?"  asked  the  mixer  of  drinks 
sarcastically. 

Charcoal  crossed  the  floor  covered  with 
sawdust,  but  to  the  surprise  of  Mike  he 
turned  his  back  to  the  bar  and  sat  himself  at 
the  piano — a  crazy  old  tin-pan  affair,  much 
the  worse  for  long  abuse  and  hard  pounding. 

"Has  yer  turned  timperance?"  This  sec 
ond  grand  effort  at  sarcasm  remained,  like 
the  first,  unanswered  and  unheeded.  The 
mind  of  the  balladmonger  was  soaring 
above  all  things  of  the  earth,  earthy,  into 
the  divine  realms  of  music.  With  his  fore 
finger  he  picked  out,  one  by  one,  the  notes 
of  the  tune  he  wanted  for  his  song.  The 
inspiration  was  sudden  and  he  wished  to 
impress  the  tune  firmly  on  his  mind,  before 
it  was  gone  forever,  past  recall.  The  fact 
that  several  keys  gave  no  response  when 


44  The  Lucky  Number 

struck  did  not  in  the  least  discourage  him ; 
a  note,  whistled  from  his  pointed  lips,  a 
kind  of  natural  piano,  was  substituted  with 
evident  satisfaction  to  the  musician. 

"If  he  ain't  crazy!"  Mike  suppressed  the 
conclusion  in  a  hearty  draught  from  the 
schooner  intended  for  Charcoal,  and  to  him 
he  paid  no  further  attention. 

The  man  at  the  piano,  with  many  shakes 
of  the  head  and  unnumbered  fresh  starts, 
kept  pounding  away  diligently  and  con 
tinuously;  at  length  each  separate  note, 
beginning  with  the  first  and  ending  with  the 
last,  arranged  itself  in  harmony  with  every 
other,  and  the  resultant  melody  seemed  a 
near  enough  outward  reproduction  of  the 
inner  conception  to  content  the  artist. 
Charcoal  was  a  Jack  of  all  trades,  good  at 
two.  He  shut  the  piano  with  a  bang,  and 
whistled  the  air  over  half  a  dozen  times  to 
make  sure  that  not  a  note  had  escaped  his 
memory. 

"Where  to?"  Mike  ceased  in  his  per 
functory  cleaning  for  a  minute  and  looked 
up  inquiringly  at  his  guest  about  to  depart. 


A  Monger  of  Ballads  45 

"Oh,  I  know  a  Dutchman  down  here  who 
can  write  notes, ' '  and  with  this  rather  am 
biguous  answer  he  slouched  into  the  street. 

"I  'spose  them  things  comes  natural-like 
to  some,"  said  the  bar-tender,  explaining 
to  a  patron  the  origin  of  the  new  tune  he  had 
been  whistling  all  day, — "just  like,  well, 
just  like  mixin'  drinks  comes  to  others." 

I  stated  en  passant  that  Charcoal  was  a 
Jack  of  all  trades,  differing  from  the  other 
versatile  Jacks  in  that  he  was  good  at  two. 
Time  was  when  he  might  have  claimed  a  fair 
mastery  of  a  third ;  in  his  better  days  (and 
you  have  read  too  much  of  this  story  not 
to  guess  that  he  must  have  seen  better  days) 
he  had  trod  the  stage ;  but  whether  he  shone 
as  a  high  tragedian  or  a  low  comedian,  the 
records  of  the  theatre  do  not  say.  Kid 
Kelly,  rude  biographer  of  the  slums — who 
takes  pains  to  learn  a  man's  history,  when 
he  judges  it  to  have  been  so  black  that  the 
subject  of  his  biography,  rather  than  suffer 
its  narration,  would  pay  him  hush  money  in 
the  shape  of  future  service, — is  authority  for 
the  statement  that  Charcoal  drew  a  big  au- 


46  The  Lucky  Number 

dience  and  a  fat  salary  until  he  fell  in  love 
with  a  leading  lady,  fair  as  foul,  who  led  him 
down  the  way  to  Avernus,  made  easy  by 
the  abuse  of  whiskey.  As  six  out  of  every 
ten  men  (to  make  a  rough  guess)  not  born 
in  the  slums  are  sent  there  by  whiskey  or 
women,  I  am  warranted  by  mathematical 
probability  in  accepting  Kid's  statements  as 
truth,  after  deducting  a  certain  percentage 
for  exaggeration.  Moreover,  Charcoal  al 
ways  disposed  of  his  ballads  to  the  profession 
directly;  that  is,  without  the  intervention 
of  a  middleman,  and  on  several  occasions 
he  was  known  to  have  secured  a  slight  loan 
in  advance  on  the  promise  of  a  song  (he 
was  merchant  enough  to  discount  his  notes), 
and  all  this,  I  think,  argues  a  remote 
acquaintance,  at  least,  with  the  profession. 
Be  this  as  it  may,  the  afternoon  of  that 
same  day  found  Charcoal  in  the  private  office 
of  a  variety  theatre,  well  patronized  by  the 
respectable  middle  classes.  In  the  gaudily 
furnished  room  he  looked  for  all  the  world 
like  a  picture  of  poverty  done  in  oil,  and 
painted  to  adorn  by  contrast  the  parlors  of 


A  Monger  of  Ballads  47 

the  rich.  The  manager,  a  shrewd,  bright, 
dapper  little  fellow,  read  the  ballad  quickly, 
and  recognizing  in  it  the  element  of  popu 
larity,  made  an  offer  of  four  dollars  to  the 
author.  The  author  timidly  suggested  that 
it  might  be  worth  five ;  a  ticket  for  the  next 
Saturday  night's  performance  was  thrown 
in  as  a  kind  of  "split  the  difference,"  and 
the  bargain  was  concluded. 

"Under  what  name  do  you  wish  it  to 
appear?"  asked  the  purchaser. 

"Name?"  Charcoal  snapped  his  fingers 
melodramatically.  "What  did  he  care  for  a 
name?  his  name  was  Charcoal;  if  he  called 
himself  by  any  other,  he  would  be  called  a 
liar.  It's  money,  money  he  wants,"  and  he 
jingled  his  four  dollars  most  musically  to  his 
own  ears,  at  least,  and  left. 

Between  that  afternoon  and  the  next 
Saturday  the  ballad — I  forgot  to  mention 
that  Charcoal  entitled  his  effort,  "The  Same 
Old  Tune" — became  the  rage;  everybody 
whistled  it,  from  musician  to  merchant,  and 
from  merchant  to  cab-driver.  Those  who 
could  not  whistle  hummed,  and  those  who 


48  The  Lucky  Number 

could  neither  hum  nor  whistle  sang  the  air. 
However,  the  ballad  had  not  yet  become 
unpopular  from  over-popularity;  and  had 
the  author's  name  been  appended  the  world 
would  have  sung  his  praises  as  well  as  his 
music,  but  since  it  appeared  anonymously, 
no  one  stopped  to  inquire  the  name  of  the 
composer. 

On  the  night  of  that  memorable  Saturday 
of  which  I  speak,  Charcoal  scaled  the  dizzy 
heights  of  the  paradiso,  and  waited  patiently 
amid  the  impatient  gods  for  the  rising  of 
the  curtain.  He  wondered  what  these  same 
gods — who  edged  away  from  him  as  though 
he  were  a  leprous  mortal — would  have  said, 
had  they  known  that  he  was  the  writer  of 
the  song  which  had  set  the  world  astir.  A 
voice  within  him  called  loudly,  "Announce 
yourself!  announce  yourself!  Get  up  and 
say,  I  am  the  author  of  '  The  Same  Old 
Tune;'  '  but  he  throttled  the  voice  and  sat 
in  silence,  so  depressed  by  the  company  of 
his  own  gloomy  thoughts  that  he  could  not 
enter  into  the  spirit  necessary  for  the  enjoy 
ment  of  the  performance. 


A  Monger  of  Ballads  49 

The  sudden  appearance  of  Mile,  de 
Moreau,  such  was  her  nom  de  programme, 
called  him  with  a  rude  shock  from  the 
depths  of  his  dungeons  in  Spain  to  the 
higher  world  of  realities.  A  look  of  pro 
found  surprise  crossed  his  face;  his  lips 
rounded  as  if  to  give  vent  to  an  "O;"  he 
shielded  his  eyes  from  the  glare  of  the  lights 
with  his  hands,  and  craned  his  neck  to  see 
better. 

She  sang  his  song  in  a  clear,  sweet  sopra 
no  voice  which  brought  out  the  pathos  of 
the  story  so  well  that  the  audience  was 
moved  to  the  very  depths  and  cheered  itself 
hoarse.  Not  Charcoal,  however;  he  pre 
served  a  stolid  silence,  and  sat  as  if  carved 
of  stone.  Perhaps  he  had  exhausted  all 
his  emotion  in  writing  the  song,  and  hence 
could  not  be  moved  by  hearing  it  sung; 
perhaps  this  may  have  been  the  prima  don 
na  referred  to  by  Kid  Kelly,  and  he  may 
have  been  thinking  of  the  strange  pranks 
destiny  plays;  perhaps, — but  why  waste 
more  time  in  useless  conjecture? 

One  thing  is  certain :  this  actress,  painted, 


50  The  Lucky  Number 

powdered,  ornamented  with  a  lavish  display 
of  cheap  jewelry;  this  thing  of  shreds  and 
patches  seemed  as  beautiful  to  Charcoal  as 
did  Beatrice,  clad  in  saintly  garb,  surrounded 
by  choiring  angels,  and  refulgent  with  celes 
tial  light,  to  the  inspired  vision  of  Dante. 

And  lo !  he,  Charcoal,  the  miserable  tramp, 
the  lackey  for  thieves  and  outcasts,  had 
poured  out  this  finest  thought  and  most 
soulful  melody,  by  means  of  which  she 
moved  this  large  audience  to  tears  and  plau 
dits  and  wild  acclaim. 

Lackey  for  tramps! — if  right  were  his,  he 
should  be  leader  of  men  of  thought  and 
fancy.  Oh,  the  pity  of  it ! — to  be  so  much 
above  the  life  he  was  leading,  and  yet  be 
bound  there  by  the  iron  chain  of  circum 
stance.  The  bathos,  the  eternal  unfitness 
of  things  held  him  on  the  balance,  trembling 
between  laughter  and  tears;  lost  opportuni 
ties,  wasted  life,  talents  scattered  to  the  four 
winds,  surged  before  him  in  dread  visual 
images  that  grasped  him,  as  it  were,  by  the 
throat  and  left  him  breathless. 

He  yearned   for  the  slums,  he  would  fit 


A  Monger  of  Ballads  51 

more  naturally  into  that  horrible  niche  of 
creation,  he  would  be  more  in  harmony  with 
the  ensemble  of  his  surroundings.  He  arose 
to  leave. 

Once  out  however,  he  regretted  his  de 
parture  bitterly  and  longed  to  return.  The 
lights,  the  crowd,  the  music,  the  enthu 
siasm,  the  bare  stage  itself,  had  exerted  a 
powerful  fascination  on  his  feverish  imagina 
tion.  "Go  back  to  the  slums?"  His  higher 
self,  his  alter  ego  was  up  in  arms  against  the 
proposition. 

The  passers-by  cast  pitying  glances  at 
him  as  he  moved  along;  such  a  miserable, 
wretched,  dejected,  poverty-stricken  mortal 
did  he  seem.  He  had  never  heeded  those 
glances  before,  or  rather  they  had  become 
so  common  that  they  made  no  impression 
on  his  consciousness;  now  they  aroused  his 
anger.  He  wanted  admiration,  not  pity; 
he  had  done  great  things;  if  they  only  knew, 
he  was  the  author  of  "The  Same  Old 
Tune."  A  dark  alley  offered  friendly  con 
cealment,  and  he  turned  thither  with  hurried 
step. 


As  he  passed  the  stage  door,  for  this  blind 
alley  led  to  the  stage  door,  the  actors  were 
filing  down  the  passage  in  groups  of  twos  and 
threes.  A  desire  to  see  again  the  prima 
donna,  who  had  interpreted  his  song  so  feel 
ingly,  arrested  his  steps ;  he  hid  against  the 
projecting  wall  and  waited. 

The  stage  mechanics  came  out  in  a  body, 
went  their  way,  and  left  the  alley  to  silence, 
to  him  and  the  faint  light  that  flickered 
over  the  entrance. 

The  door  opened  again,  and  a  woman  trip 
ped  up  a  few  stairs.  There  she  was!  Char 
coal  sprang  forward  only  to  stare  a  startled 
coryphee  in  the  face.  The  poor  danseuse  ran 
down  the  alley  at  a  pace  that  bade  defiance 
to  all  the  conventional  rules  of  her  art. 
Frightened,  disappointed,  but  not  discour 
aged  he  pressed  back  again.  She  was  long 
in  coming,  but  he  did  not  mind  that;  for 
the  night  might  as  well  be  passed  here  as 
elsewhere.  He  began  to  fear  lest  she  had 
left  before  his  advent,  or  slipped  away 
under  his  very  nose  into  the  darkness.  This 
fear  crossed  his  mind,  just  as  Mile,  de 


A  Monger  of  Ballads  53 

Moreau  and  her  escort  passed  the  door-way 
— the  escort  was  a  contingency  upon  which 
he  had  not  reckoned. 

Charcoal  crouched  down  and  debated  with 
himself  whether  he  should  speak  or  not;  he 
was  so  near  that  he  could  touch  her  with  his 
elbow,  and  yet  he  seemed  to  see  her  through 
the  halo  of  an  interminable  distance.  "If 
I  could  only  speak  to  her  for  five  minutes 
face  to  face  as  that  man  was  doing!" 

They  scolded  a  second  or  two  because 
the  carriage  was  late,  and  then  the  conver 
sation,  evidently  begun  indoors,  drifted  to 
the  mystery  attending  the  authorship  of  that 
wonderful  song. 

"Yes,  I  should  like  to  meet  the  man  who 
had  sentiment  and  feeling  enough  to  write 
that  song;  I  have  an  idea  that  the  man  who 
wrote  it  is — "  The  noise  of  clattering  hoofs 
drowned  her  last  words,  and  Charcoal  could 
not  hear  them,  hard  as  he  tried.  The  car 
riage  stopped  with  a  loud  "whoa"  from  the 
coachman. 

He  must  speak  now  or  never;  the  pangs 
of  authorship  were  upon  him  and  he 


54  The  Lucky  Number 

plunged  forward,  "Madame,  I,  Char — Ben 
Latham,  I  am  the  author  of  'The  Same 
Old  Tune.'  ' '  She  shrieked  and  jumped  into 
the  carriage.  Was  it  the  name  or  the  sud 
den  appearance  of  such  a  character  in  such 
a  place,  at  such  a  time,  that  frightened 
Mile,  de  Moreau? 

The  escort  lifted  his  cane,  then,  seeing 
the  humor  of  the  situation,  and  thinking  the 
joke  too  good  to  go  unpaid,  he  flung  the 
vagabond  a  dime;  and  the  carriage  rolled 
along. 

Charcoal  let  the  dime  lie  where  it  fell  and 
scornfully  hurried  away ;  afterwards  he  slunk 
back,  poked  in  the  mud,  and  clutched  the 
coin  that  he  had  spurned. 

Fame  has  its  rewards. 


A  Coat  of  One  Color 

"  Timeo  Danaos  et  dona  ferentes" — 
Look  &  gift  horse  in  the  mouth. 

No  one  ever  learned  how  Whitey  became 
the  owner  of  his  silk  hat  and  his  long  blue 
coat,  made  a  la  Russe,  sable  lined  and  sable 
trimmed;  but  the  most  stupid  should  have 
known  that  he  did  not  come  by  them  hon 
estly,  for  should  he  wear  what  were  honestly 
his,  then  the  rascal's  skin  would  have 
shielded  him  but  poorly  from  the  heat  of 
summer  and  the  winter's  cold. 

According  to  one  of  his  accounts — and 
his  accounts  varied  with  his  audience — he 
was  the  seventh  son  of  a  seventh  son,  and 
born  with  a  cowl  on  his  face;  and  the  coat 
and  hat,  more  particularly  the  coat,  became 
his  by  the  sacred  law  of  septogeniture. 

He  boasted  that  it  was  in  his  power  to  in 
fluence  the  destinies  of  men  for  good  or  evil, 
55 


56  The  Lucky  Number 

as  he  chose,  since  the  heritage  endowed  the 
seventh  son  with  the  divine  gift  of  working 
miracles  and  gave  him  absolute  control  over 
all  the  demons  of  the  lower  regions  and  all 
the  angels  of  the  higher. 

The  seventh  son  (I  go  back  a  generation), 
whoever  the  venerable  gentleman  may  have 
been,  was  certainly  careful  of  his  clothes; 
for  the  coat  showed  not  a  sign  of  wear,  and 
the  beaver  was  as  polished  as  if  it  had  just 
left  the  hatter's  block. 

Whitey  declared  that  with  the  clothes  on 
his  will  was  omnipotent ;  but  with  them  off, 
he  was  as  impotent,  as  ordinarily  mortal  as 
Hercules  in  the  Centaur's  deadly  robe.  You 
may  be  sure  that  he  was  never  caught  nap 
ping  or  awake  without  these  precious  gar 
ments.  All  of  his  sacred  person  that  he  ex 
posed  to  vulgar  gaze,  his  cheeks,  leprously 
white  from  disease,  and  his  hawk-like  nose 
and  dreamy  eyes, — what  occultist  has  not 
dreamy  eyes  and  a  hawk-like  nose? — which 
peeped  forth  from  the  loophole  made  by  the 
space  between  the  collar  of  his  coat  and  the 
rim  of  his  hat. 


A  Coat  of  One  Color  57 

Among  the  crowd  of  superstitious  crimi 
nals  at  The  Lucky  Number  there  was  but  a 
handful  that  was  skeptical  of  his  power  to  in 
fluence  the  fates  to  apportion  more  weal  and 
less  woe,  or  more  woe  and  less  weal,  as  the 
case  might  be,  in  the  destinies  of  their  lives; 
and  these,  save  one,  he  gradually  won  to 
belief  by  the  use  of  verba  sesquipedalia,  by 
sleight  of  hand  tricks,  and  a  few  bold  predic 
tions  that,  as  luck  would  have  it,  came  to  pass. 

What  is  more  convincing  to  the  ignorant 
and  the  superstitious  than  the  esoteric  clad  in 
high-sounding,  empty  phraseology?  The 
poor  gudgeons  nibbled  at  his  bait  without 
suspicion,  and  when  they  had  nibbled  long 
enough  to  be  caught  by  the  hook,  he  drew 
them  in  remorselessly. 

His  success  made  the  charlatan  arrogant 
to  the  degree  of  insolence ;  he  threatened  to 
visit  them  all  with  ills  that  made  the  plagues 
of  Pharaoh  seem  blessings  by  comparison ; 
and  when  they  were  quaking  with  fear,  he 
seized  the  propitious  moment  and  declared 
himself  the  Czar  of  The  Lucky  Number. 
His  realm  to  be  sure  was  not  vast,  but  the 


58  The  Lucky  Number 

very  narrowness  of  its  confines  (there  is  no 
disadvantage  without  some  contingent  ad 
vantage)  aided  him  in  the  establishment  of 
an  unlimited  monarchy  and  allowed  him  to 
rule  his  subjects  with  a  rod  of  iron. 

Then  the  man  of  magic  grew  exorbitant 
in  his  demands,  as  is  natural  for  one  who 
has  risen  from  tenement  to  throne  with  such 
Mercurial  rapidity,  and  he  imposed  even 
upon  the  nobility  the  most  menial  of  tasks. 
His  peasantry  were  taxed  to  the  utmost  that 
he  might  have  vodka  in  superabundance, — by 
the  canfuls;  and  once,  when  the  taxes  had 
yielded  beyond  precedent,  he  gave  forth  the 
ukase  that  his  shoes  be  blacked. 

Human  forbearance  has  limits  beyond 
which  no  one  may  venture  to  pass,  but  the 
autocrat  disregarded  all  boundary  lines  and 
encroached  on  the  interior.  The  ukase  was 
such  a  flagrant  abuse  of  power  that  even 
Charcoal,  the  most  timid  serf  in  the  realm, 
upon  whom  the  whole  weight  of  the  imperial 
edict  fell,  openly  refused  to  obey  its  behest. 

The  nobility  and  muzhiks  surreptitiously 
countenanced  the  revolt  of  the  serf,  mur- 


A  Coat  of  One  Color  59 

murs  portentous  of  a  terrible  revolution 
filled  the  air;  the  ruler  felt  his  throne  (a  chair 
minus  its  cane  bottom)  totter,  and  under  his 
breath  he  prayed,  "God  save  the  czar." 

A  great  emergency  surely,  but  with  a  ma 
jesty  equal  to  it  he  arose  from  his  throne. 
Crafty  potentate  that  he  was,  in  peace  he 
had  prepared  himself  for  war;  while  sitting 
supinely  on  his  throne  he  had  been  dreaming 
of  a  great  revolt,  and  mentally  outlining  a 
course  that  should  crush  it  at  a  single  blow, 
though  it  have  as  many  heads  as  a  hydra, 
and  each  head  be  endowed  with  as  many 
lives  as  a  cat. 

He  removed  his  crown  and  threw  his  im 
perial  mantle  from  off  his  shoulders.  Think 
of  it,  the  mystical  garments  of  his  father, 
the  original  seventh  son,  thrown  angrily  on 
the  floor  by  his  seventh  son ! 

"Knave,  take  them  and  they  are  yours," 
he  exclaimed,  "but  if  you  so  much  as  touch 
the  sacred  hem  of  that  garment  with  the  tip 
of  a  finger,  you  bring  upon  yourself  the 
anathema  of  the  seventh  son.  The  ana 
thema  of  the  seventh  son,  I  warn  you!" 


60  The  Lucky  Number 

He  spoke  with  a  sublimity  befitting  a 
monarch;  Tom  Keene,  as  Richelieu,  never 
shook  altitudinous  galleries  with  such  a 
thunder. 

And  Charcoal,  you  think,  shrinking  back 
in  fear,  craved  pardon,  and  let  the  crown 
and  mantle  lie  where  they  fell?  Not  much! 
Charcoal  was  a  poet,  you  remember,  and 
hence  not  to  be  browbeaten  out  of  a  sable 
coat  and  a  silk  hat  even  by  the  anathemati 
zation  of  one  seven  times  removed  from  the 
seventh  son.  Charcoal  was  "  the  one  "  who 
had  steadfastly  remained  a  skeptic ;  while  not 
having  the  physical  courage  to  declare  his 
dissension  openly,  he  had  the  mental  cour 
age  to  remain  unconvinced  by  the  rhodo- 
montade  of  this  hoax.  Fearful  that  his 
prize  might  be  taken  from  him,  he  pulled 
the  hat  over  his  ears,  grasped  the  coat 
tightly,  and  hastened  out  of  doors. 

And  the  Czar,  you  think,   bemoaned  his 
lost  finery,  and  repented  his  rash  act?    If  so 
you  mistake  again ;  it  was  just  what  he  had 
expected ;  it  was  just  what  he  had  planned.  • 
Before    the   night    came   he    would    again 


A  Coat  of  One  Color  61 

ascend  his  throne  in  triumph ;  and  this  nihil 
ist,  this  skeptic,  who  was  ever  a  menace  to 
his  reign,  this  Gringoire  of  the  gutters, 
would  drag  his  lengthening  chains  Siberia- 
ward  and  cast  more  than  one  longing, 
lingering  look  behind. 

"He  will  regret  his  foolhardiness;  the 
curse  of  the  seventh  son  is  on  his  shoulders. 
The  hat  and  coat  will  float  back  to  me 
through  the  realms  of  space,  and  this  rebel 
will  beg  me  to  release  him  from  his  dungeon 
by  my  magic.  But  he  will  beg  in  vain,  in 
vain,"  and  the  wizard  stalked  out  of  the 
place,  majestic  even  in  his  rags. 

Charcoal  moved  through  the  wind-swept 
streets;  and  in  the  intense  cold  he  revelled 
in  the  sensation  of  feeling  warm,  a  sensation 
he  had  not  experienced  for  years.  Clothes 
do  not  make  the  man,  but  he  was  only  half 
a  man,  and  the  clothes  supplying  the  miss 
ing  half,  made  him  one,  for  the  nonce,  with 
out  disputing  the  axiom.  People  turned 
around  to  look  at  him  with  an  air  which 
said,  "Who  is  that  aristocrat?" 

To  say  that  he  walked  along  proud  as  a 


62  The  Lucky  Number 

peacock,  would  phrase  it  by  only  a  half;  but 
since  nothing  is  known  that  walks  prouder 
than  a  peacock,  his  pride  must  be  allowed  to 
go  half  unexpressed. 

In  one  of  the  pockets  he  found  a  nickel, 
the  discovery  made  him  jubilant;  it  might 
be  the  coat  of  Fortunatas,  as  well  as  that  of 
the  seventh  son.  He  plunged  in  the  same 
pocket  again  and  found  nothing — the  coat 
belonged  to  the  seventh  son  only,  curse  it ! 
Then  he  began  a  painstaking  search,  and  all 
he  got  for  his  pains  was  a  letter,  sealed  care 
fully  and  addressed  in  a  neat  hand. 

Charcoal  was  about  to  open  the  envelope 
and  read  the  letter,  when  he  reflected  that 
he  might  gain  more  by  handing  it  to  the 
person  addressed ;  for,  if  the  seal  were 
broken,  he  dared  not  deliver  it ;  and,  in  case 
the  contents  proved  worthless,  he  would  de 
fraud  himself  in  two  ways.  Why  gratify  a 
vulgar  curiosity  when  an  emolument  was  at 
stake?  He  was  a  poet,  a  man  of  high 
ideals,  and  the  seal  on  a  letter  was  a  sacred 
thing  in  his  eyes. 

The  writer  of  sentimental  ballads  buttoned 


A  Coat  of  One  Color  63 

his  coat  and  hurried  on;  "Mr.  Von  Million, 
President  of  the  Tenth  National  Bank," 
said  he,  repeating  the  address,  "I  wonder 
if  the  gentleman  is  distantly  related  to 
Whitey."  He  might  be  one  of  the  other 
six  brothers,  or  one  of  the  six  brothers  of 
the  seventh  son,  for,  in  a  family  of  such 
complicated  relationship,  one  might  easily 
claim  blood  ties  with  anybody  one  chose. 

"The  letter  may  bring  me  in  a  fortune  of 
itself,"  he  reflected;  "what  a  gudgeon 
Whitey  is  to  think  I  would  take  a  bluff  like 
that." 

"What  a  gudgeon  that  balladmonger  is 
to  have  called  my  bluff,"  thought  the 
wizard,  when  shivering  in  the  cold  he  saw 
Charcoal  replace  the  letter  and  make  rapid 
strides,  as  he  surmised,  towards  the  place  to 
which  it  was  addressed.  They  both  fostered 
the  same  high  opinion  of  each  other's  worth ; 
which  is  easily  understood,  if  one  stops  to 
consider  that  both  poet  and  magician  work 
in  the  same  material,  the  immaterial. 

Charcoal's  dress  admitted  him  into  the 
president's  office  without  delay  and  the  un- 


64  The  Lucky  Number 

rolling  of  yards  of  red  tape.  "As  this  world 
runs,"  he  mused,  "a  man  should  always  go 
well  dressed." 

With  a  bow  that  would  have  won  the  ad 
miration  of  a  dancing  master,  Mr.  Von  Mil 
lion,  taking  the  letter,  asked  the  bearer  to 
be  seated.  "The  materialism  of  our  day," 
ran  Charcoal's  thoughts,  "is  enough  to  make 
a  good  poet  a  bad  pessimist ;  more  respect 
is  paid  to  a  wearer  of  sables  than  to  a  writer 
of  sonnets." 

The  president's  face  changed  color  as  he 
read,  he  gasped  for  breath  and  nervously 
crumpled  the  paper  in  his  hand.  "The 
communication  must  be  important,"  con 
cluded  the  balladmonger;  Charcoal  had  all 
the  sensitive  intuition  of  a  bard ;  the  note, 
for  it  was  a  simple  note  and  not  a  letter, 
read :  ' '  Unless  you  deliver  the  bearer  1 5 ,  ooo 
dollars  immediately,  he  will  blow  your 
brains  out."  The  communication  was  im 
portant. 

"I  will  be  back  with  the  money  in  a  min 
ute,"  said  the  terrified  capitalist  in  a  voice 
that  tried  hard  to  betray  no  feeling  of  fear, 


A  Coat  of  One  Color  65 

and  he  stepped  towards  the  door  on  tip-toe, 
as  if  he  were  afraid  of  the  sound  of  his  foot 
fall. 

"I  wonder  where  the  man  lives  to  whom 
I  am  to  take  the  money.  But  what's  the 
difference?  No  matter  where  he  lives,  I  can 
deliver  it  in  a  minute;  it's  all  one  to  me" — 
Charcoal  showed  a  true  poet's  carelessness 
in  money  affairs. 

If  he  should  hand  him  5,000  dollars,  if  it 
be  that  much,  he  would  buy  him  a  Sabine 
farm,  and  in  the  center  of  it,  on  the  sloping 
bank  of  an  artificial  lake  (a  thing  beautiful  to 
behold  in  the  summertime,  when  the  water 
lilies  were  in  full  bloom,  and  the  swans 
went  swimming  between  the  small  wooded 
islands)  he  would  build  him,  O  sancta  sim- 
plicitas,  a  log  cabin ;  and  therein  would  he 
devote  the  rest  of  his  days  to  the  muses,  and 
to  gazing  out  of  the  window  on  the  waters 
of  his  lake,  shimmering  in  the  moonlight, 
for  inspiration. 

And  if  it  were  10,000  dollars?  With  the 
other  five  he  would  build  a  barn  of  brown 
stone  with  pressed  brick  trimmings,and  stock 


66  The  Lucky  Number 

it  with  blooded  Kentucky  horses,  and  gor 
geous  turnouts,  and  colored  footmen  and 
coachmen,  who  should  be  clad  in  top  boots, 
tight-fitting  knee-breeches  of  white,  coats 
of  flaming  red,  and  black  silk  hats  with 
white  bands  and  cockades  of  yellow. 

When  the  weather  was  fine  he  might,  by 
way  of  diversion,  drive  to  the  city  and  stop 
his  coach  and  four  at  The  Lucky  Number 
for  refreshment.  Would  the  hobos  recog 
nize  their  former  frater  in  poverty  in  this 
grand  gentleman,  who  carelessly  threw  a 
silver  dollar  on  the  bar  for  a  schooner  of 
beer,  and  refused  the  change?  He  felt  sure 
that  they  would  not.  But  if  they  did,  there 
would  be  such  a  sensation  as  one  sees  only 
in  a  melodrama. 

Charcoal  slipped  down  in  the  upholstered 
chair,  and,  stretching  his  feet  out  towards 
the  fire  that  burned  cheerfully  in  the  grate, 
he  added  story  after  story  to  his  castles  in 
Spain.  How  pleasant  it  is  to  build  castles 
when  one  has  lived  in  a  dungeon  all  one's 
life. 

Between  the  heat  blazed  out  from  the  grate 


A  Coat  of  One  Color  67 

and  the  warmth  engendered  by  his  sable,  he 
found  himself  uncomfortable,  and  absent- 
mindedly,  dreaming  still  of  his  castle  (it  had 
assumed  the  proportions  of  a  sky-scraper  by 
this  time),  he  arose,  removed  his  heavy 
overcoat,  and  threw  it  across  the  back  of  the 
chair. 

The  sight  of  his  rags  threw  him  from  the 
window  of  the  top  story  of  his  castle  of 
dreams  to  terra  firma  of  the  actual  and  the 
present ;  he  awoke  with  a  start,  and,  blam 
ing  himself  for  his  folly,  he  was  about  to 
don  the  robe  again  when  the  president  en 
tered  the  room,  holding  in  his  hand  a  small 
white  canvas  bag.  He  dropped  the  bag  on 
the  table  with  a  thud  and  remarked,  "It's 
all  in  fifty  dollar  gold  pieces." 

Charcoal  jumped  to  grab  it ;  a  policeman 
entered  from  another  door,  and  grabbed 
Charcoal.  "Whitey,  the  letter,  and  the 
coat,  damn  them!  I  see  his  game,"  he 
maundered. 

In  the  twinkling  of  a  star  his  fortune,  base 
less  fabric,  had  vanished  into  nothingness; 
but  his  dreams,  substantial  gift  of  the  muses, 


68  The  Lucky  Number 

still  remained,  and  as  long  as  they  were  his 
he  could  be  rich  as  a  Croesus,  in  his  mind. 

One  guardian  of  the  peace  had  just  assist 
ed  the  poet  into  the  patrol  wagon,  and  an 
other  guardian  of  order,  who  carried  in  his 
hands  the  hat  and  coat  that  had  cost  Char 
coal  his  liberty,  was  about  to  mount  its 
steps  when  he  felt  two  quick,  sudden  jerks. 
He  turned  swiftly,  but  too  slowly;  the  hat 
and  coat  were  gone.  He  caught  a  glimpse 
of  the  thief  disappearing  in  the  crowd  and 
gave  chase.  "No  use,"  said  the  officer  re 
turning  to  the  wagon  breathless  and  empty- 
handed,  "that  fellow  is  made  of  rubber  and 
lightning." 

The  patrol  had  not  yet  passed  the  door  of 
The  Lucky  Number  when  the  Czar  entered ; 
his  white  face  was  wreathed  in  a  happy  smile, 
his  beaver  sat  crown-like  on  his  head,  and 
his  person  was  arrayed  in  the  glory  of  his 
sable  coat. 

"Where's  Charcoal?"  they  asked. 

"Going  over  the  road,"  he  answered  in 
differently,  "see,  there  he  goes." 

They  ran    to    the  window;  they  looked 


A  Coat  of  One  Color  69 

at  each  other  in  amazement,  as  men  who 
have  seen  a  great  miracle  performed  and 
who  have  not  yet  recovered  from  the  effect. 

"How  did  that  happen?"  one  bolder  than 
the  rest  ventured  to  ask. 

"As  I  told  you  it  would  happen,"  thun 
dered  the  wizard;  "he  dared  to  touch  the 
sacred  coat  of  the  seventh  son." 

"After  this,"  he  said  autocratically,  "I 
want  my  boots  blacked  every  morning;  you 
may  take  turns." 

They  quarreled  among  themselves  for  the 
honor  of  the  first  shine. 


A  Pair  of  Eyes 

THE  Doctor,  the  Quill,  and  the  Lark, 
arm  in  arm,  staggered  out  of  the  low 
doorway  of  The  Lucky  Number,  the  vilest 
saloon  in  the  slums.  A  veritable  triangle 
of  vice  these  three,  held  together  by  sym 
pathetic  lines  of  sin,  debauchery  and  crime. 
As  they  emerged  from  the  doorway, — their 
sodden,  leering  countenances  made  more 
grewsome  by  the  thin,  flickering,  bluish 
light  puffed  about  them  by  the  single  gas 
jet  which  hung  overhead, — they  formed  a 
group  as  shockingly  realistic  as  a  painting 
by  Jean  Beraud. 

The  Doctor,  whom  the  cheap  drink  had 
merely  inflamed  to  madness,  maintained  his 
equilibrium  without  difficulty  on  the  out 
side  ;  the  Quill,  who  was  just  sober  enough 
to  know  where  he  was  going,  stumbled  along 
on  the  inside;  and  the  Lark,  who  had  more 
70 


A  Pair  of  Eyes  71 

than  he  was  able  to  carry,  wisely  choosing 
the  center,  was  supported  by  the  other  two. 

Thus  balanced,  the  trio  reached  their  lodg 
ing,  a  miserable  bare  hole  on  the  top  floor 
of  the  poorest  tenement  in  the  whole 
neighborhood. 

The  climbing  of  stairs  was  an  obstacle  on 
which  the  Lark  had  not  reckoned,  but  he 
finally  managed  to  overcome  it  with  the  as 
sistance  of  the  Quill's  strong  arm  and  the 
Doctor's  violent  blows  and  loud  curses. 

The  Doctor,  fumbling  around  in  the  dark 
ness,  found  and  lit  a  candle.  Few  words 
are  needed  to  describe  what  the  rays  of 
light  from  that  candle  fell  upon, — squalor, 
dirt,  and  utter  bareness  tell  all.  The 
Lark  felt,  by  a  kind  of  instinct,  that  he  was 
at  home,  and  dropped  on  the  floor  in  a  stu 
por.  The  Doctor  seized  the  single  stool  for 
himself,  used  his  own  leg  for  its  missing 
third,  and  sat  there,  resting  his  fat  chin  on* 
his  hand.  The  Quill  was  preparing  to  squat 
on  the  floor,  after  the  example  set  by  the 
Lark,  when  a  vigorous  kick  from  the  Doc 
tor's  unoccupied  member  aroused  him. 


72  The  Lucky  Number 

"Wait  a  minute,  you,  I  have  something 
to  say. ' ' 

These  words  seemed  to  carry  all  the 
authority  of  superior  brute  force;  for  the 
one  commanded  rubbed  his  eyes  vigorously 
and  tried  to  sit  upright.  His  first  attempt 
failed,  but  the  threatening  boot  of  the  Doc 
tor  was  too  powerful  a  stimulus  to  make  a 
third  necessary. 

"Have  you  any  money?" 

The  Quill  looked  up  in  a  manner  that 
plainly  interrogated  the  Doctor's  sanity. 
Money,  could  a  man  buy  whiskey  for  two 
such  thirsty  birds  and  keep  his  money  too? 
He  had  merely  learned  the  art  of  forgery, 
never  that  of  magic. 

"Stop  your  crazy  tongue  and  search  the 
Lark." 

The  innermost  recesses  of  the  sleeper's 
pockets  did  not  reveal  a  sou  to  the  Quill's 
investigation. 

"Bah!"  snapped  the  commander,  "his 
songs  are  stale,  they  are  as  worn  out  as  the 
rags  on  his  filthy  body."  This  was  a  refer 
ence  to  the  sentimental  ditties  by  which  the 


A  Pair  of  Eyes  73 

once  tuneful  voice  of  the  Lark  had  enticed 
stray  pennies  from  the  fallen  women  of  the 
slums,  who  gave  rather  in  the  hope  of  col 
lecting  principal  and  interest  from  the  Lord 
than  as  a  reward  to  the  singer — "who 
giveth  to  the  poor — " 

"And  that  damned  pen  of  yours  hasn't 
turned  in  a  penny  for  months!  You  coward, 
you  're  afraid  to  forge  again;  I've  a  mind  to 
pitch  you  out  of  the  window."  The  Doc 
tor  arose  in  his  drunken  wrath,  and  the 
Quill  crept  close  to  the  wall  in  craven  fear. 

"Look  here,  this  thing  must  stop;  it  's 
gone  on  long  enough,  I'm  tired  of  hoaxing 
fools  with  my  magic  cures  just  to  support 
two  such  lazy  vagabonds  in  luxury.  It's 
time  you  were  helping  me,  and  one  of  you 
is  going  to  help  me,  you  hear!" 

The  vender  of  magic  cures  sat  lost  in 
meditation  for  a  few  seconds,  and  then  burst 
out  in  a  torrent  of  vile  oaths, — the  puddles 
of  the  gutter  pouring  into  a  sewer. 

"I  have  a  new  song  for  our  Lark  to  sing, 
and  one  that  will  catch  pennies  by  the  hand 
ful  :  '  Mister,  help  a  poor  blind  man ; '  ' ' — he 


74  The  Lucky  Number 

chuckled  this  last  phrase  in  a  falsetto  voice, 
and  holding  his  hand  out  pleadingly,  shut 
his  eyes  to  imitate  a  figure  in  a  picture  that 
flashed  over  his  brain,  maddened  to  frenzy 
by  liquor.  "There  you,  take  this." 

The  erstwhile  forger,  held  upright  by  the 
sheer  strength  of  fear,  picked  up  the  rusty 
knife  flung  on  the  floor. 

"Take  that  blanket  and  cut  it  in  strips." 

"For  what?" 

"For  what,  you  drunken  fool;  since  when 
must  I  give  you  reasons?  Do  you  want  to 
go  on  the  streets  and  work?" 

The  forger  shuddered  at  the  prospect — 
"God  forbid." 

"Well,  then  do  as  I  say." 

His  fingers  moved  as  fast  as  an  incipient 
attack  of  delirium  tremens  would  permit, 
but  not  fast  enough  to  suit  his  majesty. 
"Will  you  work,  you,  or  must  I  help?"  he 
shrieked.  This  proffer  of  assistance  had  the 
desired  effect, — the  menial's  increased  activ 
ity  made  aid  unnecessary. 

"Now  bind  his  hands  and  his  feet  tight, 
tight  as  you  can!" 


A  Pair  of  Eyes  75 

He  bent  over  the  sleeping  singer  of  dit 
ties  and  carried  out  the  stern  command, 
wondering,  but  not  daring  to  ask,  what  his 
master  intended  to  do. 

The  master  satisfied  himself  that  the  task 
was  thoroughly  done,  and  then  bestowed  a 
kick  upon  his  servant  for  reward ;  he  added 
the  finishing  touch  himself  by  stuffing  a 
filthy  rag  in  the  mouth  of  the  unfortunate 
drunkard. 

A  loathsome  for  boding  made  the  Quill's 
flesh  creep;  his  teeth  chattered,  his  nerves 
quivered  and  twitched,  and  his  legs  seemed 
to  be  giving  way  from  beneath  him.  He 
ventured  a  faint  remonstrance. 

The  scampering  of  a  rat  threw  a  lump  of 
loose  plaster  on  the  floor,  the  candle  splut 
tering  went  out,  and  the  frightened  rat 
squeaked.  Through  his  rounded  lips  the 
Doctor  blew  a  long,  deep-drawn  "w-h-e-w. " 

"Ghosts,  ghosts!"  gasped  the  delirious 
Quill,  crawling  to  the  Doctor  on  his  hands 
and  knees,  and  clinging  to  him  for  protec 
tion;  "ghosts,  they  want  me,  they  are  going 
to  choke  me,  they  have  their  damned  hands 


y6  The  Lucky  Number 

on  my  throat!  For  God's  sake,  light  the 
candle  and  scare  them  away!" 

This  pitiful  fright  afforded  the  Doctor  in 
finite  amusement,  and  he  laughed  fiendishly. 
"Scare  them  away  nothing,  I'll  call  them 
here  by  the  dozens.  W-hew,  w-h-e-w,  I'll 
have  them  tear  you  to  shreds  unless  you 
mind  me,  and  do  what  I  say,  and  stop  your 
crazy  chatter.  W-h-e-w!" 

''Yes,  I'll  do  anything,  anything;  I'll  kill 
myself  if  you  want — only  hurry,  hurry ;  the 
nasty  things  have  their  fingers  on  my 
throat,"  he  gurgled. 

Too  much  fear  was  as  bad  as  too  little; 
the  man  might  faint  dead  away  and  become 
useless.  So  thinking,  the  Doctor  struck  a 
match  to  light  the  candle  again. 

In  obedience  to  the  order  of  his  master, 
the  Quill  heated  a  long  thin  wire  until  it 
turned  white  in  the  flames  of  the  candle. 

"Now  burn  his  eyes  out,"  commanded 
the  monster. 

The  Quill  darted  to  the  door,  and  was  out 
before  the  Doctor  could  stop  him.  The  re 
volting  fiendishness  of  the  purpose  shocked 


A  Pair  of  Eyes  77 

him  into  soberness;  it  acted  like  a  sudden 
plunge  into  freezing  water. 

The  lion  missed  the  jackal  and  cursed 
him  with  a  roar  of  angry  oaths.  "It's  bet 
ter  after  all,"  he  muttered.  "I  can  do  the 
job  myself,  and  get  everything  that's  in  it; 
besides,  if  I  am  found  out,  I  can  lay  the 
whole  business  on  him." 

Intense,  unbearable  pain  aroused  the  Lark 
from  his  drunken  stupor,  but  his  pain 
gave  way  to  terror  when  he  discovered  that 
his  hands  and  feet  were  bound  tightly. 
He  lay  still  for  a  few  minutes  trying  to 
account  for  it  all;  finding  himself  unable  to 
do  so,  his  distress  increased,  a  sense  of  the 
supernatural  fell  upon  him,  he  reached  out 
to  shake  the  Doctor.  The  Doctor  awoke, 
his  teeth  chattering  with  the  cold;  "What 
do  you  want?"  he  growled;  "do'nt  you 
think  it's  hard  enough  for  a  restless  man 
to  sleep  in  the  cold,  and  with  the  rats 
gnawing  away,  without  being  disturbed  by 
a  maniac?" 

"What  has  happened, — why  am  I  bound 
like  this?  What  does  it  mean?" 


78  The  Lucky  Number 

"Ask  the  Quill,  he  knows  and  I  do'nt! 
Let  me  sleep,  you  hear!" 

The  Lark  began  jerking  around  the  room 
on  his  knees  in  a  pathetic  search  for  the 
Quill. 

The  Quill  had  gone,  what  did  that 
mean?  Why  had  he  sneaked  away  like  a 
door-mat*  in  the  night? 

"You  will  find  out  soon  enough,"  said 
the  Doctor  grimly,  and  fell  asleep  again. 

The  Lark's  torture  became  excruciating; 
it  seemed  to  him  that  someone  was  boring 
into  his  eyes  with  an  auger  of  interminable 
length,  and  that  the  laceration  grew  more  un 
endurable  at  every  twist  of  the  flesh-rending 
tool.  He  moaned  and  groaned,  but  to  him 
the  Doctor  paid  no  heed.  A  weird,  har 
rowing  apprehension,  more  insufferable  be 
cause  less  palpable  than  his  cruciation, 
mastered  him  now.  He  was  like  a  whipped 
child  thrust  into  the  darkness — smart  and 
ache  became  as  naught  in  comparison  with 
the  dread  of  shrieking  goblins,  hideous 
dwarfs  and  revengeful  giants,  with  which 

*A  sneak  thief. 


A  Pair  of  Eyes  79 

the  frightened  child's  imagination  peoples 
the  darkness.  The  Lark  could  stand  it 
no  longer,  and  for  the  sake  of  companion 
ship,  for  the  mere  soothing  sensation  of 
hearing  a  human  voice,  he  aroused  the 
Doctor. 

By  this  time  the  room  was  suffused  with 
the  light  of  early  morn,  just  tinted  by  the 
red  gleam  of  the  winter's  sun,  struggling 
with  the  dissipated  darkness.  The  Doctor 
did  not  seem  at  all  unwilling  to  rise,  he 
was  even  so  good-natured  that  he  whistled 
an  air  while  completing  his  toilet,  which 
consisted  in  rubbing  his  face  with  his  hands 
and  shaking  his  clothes. 

The     Lark     ventured     on    a    question: 

"What  time  is  it?" 

"Breakfast  time,  without  the  breakfast," 
was  the  answer. 

"But  man,  you  're  jesting;  it's  dark  yet." 

"Dark  nothing,  it  's  light  as  day.  Do 
you  think  it  's  going  to  stay  dark  forever? 
Can't  you  tell  time  without  a  thimble*  ?" 

The  Lark  trembled  from   head  to   foot; 

*A  watch. 


8o  The  Lucky  Number 

what  had  happened  dawned  upon  him  in  a 
flash.  Timidly  he  framed  the  words  and 
slowly,  like  one  who  wishes  to  be  disputed  in 
what  he  affirms;  "Am  I — "  somehow  the 
last  word  would  not  out. 

The  Doctor  was  not  so  fearful.  "Yes, 
undoubtedly  he  had  lost  his  sight ;  too  much 
drink,  and  cheap  drink  at  that,  had  done 
the  work."  He  had  seen  cases  like  it  be 
fore  in  his  short,  mundane  existence. 

It  would  have  moved  a  hangman  to  tears 
to  have  seen  how  the  wretched  sufferer  stag 
gered  and  collapsed  under  this  fiendish  blow. 

The  Doctor  laughed.  "What  is  the  use 
of  carrying  on  so;  what  does  sight  profit 
a  man  who  has  not  the  money  necessary  to 
see  things?" 

The  Lark  evidently  found  no  consolation 
in  the  Doctor's  philosophy;  for  he  howled 
and  kicked  the  floor  in  impotent  rage. 

The  Doctor  dealt  him  a  violent  clout  and 
threatened  to  desert  him  if  he  did  n't  "cease 
his  music." 

"What,  would  you  leave  me  to  starve  to 
death  like  a  rat  in  a  trap?"  he  asked. 


A  Pair  of  Eyes  8 1 

"Not  so  long  as  you  behave  yourself. 
Come,  it's  time  to  go  to  work." 

"Work,  to  work,  what  can  I  do?" 

"Basket*  and  crutch  it.f  " 

The  blood  shot  to  the  Lark's  head,  his 
skull  felt  as  if  cleaved   by  the  blow  of  an 
axe,  and  he  fell  on  the  floor  in  a  swoon. 
*         •*         *         * 

The  Doctor  led  the  Lark  homeward 
against  a  chill  penetrating  north  wind.  They 
were  both  numb  with  cold  and  trudged  on 
through  the  snow  in  silence,  not  wanting  to 
drain  by  speech  the  little  vitality  left  them. 
The  Doctor,  who  had  watched  the  blind 
man  closely  from  the  shelter  of  a  doorway, 
was  not  quite  so  exhausted  and  spoke  first. 

"How  much?"  the  question  was  laconic, 
the  answer  was  still  more  so — "Nothing." 

"Not  a  red?" 

"Not  a  red!" 

The  tyrant  raged,  his  anger  carried  him 
beyond  himself:  had  they  not  been  in 
the  street — well,  it  was  good  for  him  that 

*Beg  from  house  to  house, 
fBeg  on  the  streets. 


82  The  Lucky  Number 

they  were  where  they  could  be  seen  and 
heard!  So,  not  a  red,  and  how  long  was 
this  to  continue?  How  long  was  he  to  sup 
port  a  worthless,  blind  beggar  in  idleness? 
It  was  the  same  yesterday ;  and  the  day  be 
fore,  not  enough  to  buy  them  a  decent  meal. 
Bah!  he  could  do  better  alone!  He  was 
playing  out,  he  was  getting  stale. 

The  Lark  never  answered  a  word ;  for  one 
reason,  not  knowing  what  to  answer;  for 
another  reason,  not  daring  to  answer  any 
thing. 

The  Doctor,  foreign  to  his  habit,  repeated ; 
"You  are  getting  stale,  you  are  played  out! 
I  have  a  quarter  left,  enough  to  buy  supper 
and  bed  for  one,  and  you  can  go  to  the 
devil — it  is  the  devil  that  cares  for  the 
blind  anyway." 

There  was  a  crisp  sound  of  hurrying  feet 
breaking  through  the  frozen  snow,  and  the 
Lark  stood  alone.  The  last  stunning  blow 
was  struck  so  unexpectedly  that  a  few  min 
utes  passed  before  the  wretched  beggar  re 
covered  from  his  dazed  condition  and  realized 
what  had  happened.  But  when  he  did.  real- 


A  Pair  of  Eyes  83 

ize  it,  the  cowardice,  the  revolting  cruelty 
of  the  desertion  sickened  him  to  the  last 
degree ;  he  was  nauseated.  If  his  tormentor 
before  leaving  had  only  been  considerate 
enough  to  have  ended  his  miserable  exist 
ence,  the  Lark  would  not  have  thought  him 
so  heartless ;  but  to  leave  him  quivering  and 
gasping  like  that, —  it  destroyed  even  the 
Lark's  faith  in  human  depravity. 

Blind,  freezing,  starving,  penniless,  shel 
terless,  friendless,  deserted — there  was  but 
one  thing  for  him  to  do,  to  finish  what  the 
Doctor  had  left  undone. 

Twice  every  day,  once  when  departing 
and  once  when  returning  to  his  lodgings,  he 
passed  over  the  bridge;  hence,  naturally 
enough,  the  river  stood  out  prominently  in 
the  foreground  of  his  kaleidoscopic  vision 
of  death  and  suicide.  He  trusted  in  his 
sense  of  direction  to  lead  him  due  west 
along  the  half  mile  line  that  lay  between 
him  and  the  river.  His  point  of  departure 
was  a  corner  formed  by  six  streets  intersect 
ing  one  another,  and  without  any  hesitancy 
he  chose  the  one  going  due  north — the  sixth 


84  The  Lucky  Number 

sense  has  its  illusions  as  well  as  the  other 
five. 

He  was  sure  that  he  had  covered  his  half 
mile  twice,  and  he  stopped,  wondering  why 
he  heard  none  of  those  peculiarly  hollow  and 
jangled  sounds  which  had  always  apprised 
him  of  the  proximity  of  the  bridge.  Pos 
sibly  he  might  have  taken  the  wrong  road, 
he  would  wait  until  some  passer-by  came 
along  and  find  out  to  a  certainty.  But  the 
passer-by  was  long  in  coming,  in  fact,  he 
came  not  at  all;  and  no  wonder,  for  the 
Lark  had  halted  at  the  foot  of  an  open  plot 
of  ground  that  marked  the  end  of  the  dark, 
unfrequented  short  street.  In  a  less  ex 
citable  mood  of  mind,  the  absence  of  all 
traffic  would  have  indicated  his  mistake  to 
him  before  he  had  proceeded  a  quarter  of 
the  distance. 

The  thermometer  was  falling  rapidly, 
and  with  it  the  temperature  of  his  blood 
was  falling;  if  he  stood  still  much  long 
er  the  cold  might  prove  a  bad  substitute 
for  the  water.  The  Lark  preferred  drown 
ing  to  freezing.  Possibly  his  anxiety  to  reach 


A  Pair  of  Eyes  85 

his  destination  had  made  him  cover  the  road 
far  more  quickly  in  imagination  than  he 
could  in  actuality;  so  thinking  he  started 
forward.  His  will  was  stronger  than  his 
weak,  starved,  over-worked,  fatigued  body 
(and  that  few  minutes'  pause  had  brought 
home  to  him  how  fatigued  and  over-worked 
it  was),  and  he  fell  headlong  into  the  snow. 
He  tried  to  rise,  but  the  inertia  of  his  flesh 
outweighed  the  power  of  his  muscle.  He 
would  rest  a  few  seconds,  gather  his 
strength  and  try  again. 

The  wind  settled  to  a  dead  calm  and  the 
night  air  turned  biting  cold;  I  say  biting 
cold,  for  the  Lark  felt  as  if  it  had  sharp, 
savage  teeth  that  tore  into  his  flesh  and 
laid  his  bones  bare.  So  stiff  and  numb  did 
his  body  grow  that  he  found  himself  unable 
to  bend  his  leg  or  move  his  arm.  The  pain 
he  suffered  on  that  terrible  night  when  he 
had  lost  his  sight  seemed  trifling  in  compari 
son  with  what  he  was  now  undergoing. 

Gradually  he  lost  all  sensation ;  one  might 
have  stuck  pins  into  him  and  they  would  not 
have  been  felt.  A  stupor,  an  indescribable 


86  The  Lucky  Number 

drowsiness,  made  him  desire  to  sleep;  he 
knew  the  danger  of  such  a  sleep,  and  tried  to 
ward  it  off;  but  a  sudden,  thrilling,  genial 
warmth  passed  through  him  and  made  the 
temptation  irresistible :  giving  way  to  it,  he 
was  soon  at  rest. 

Towards  morning  the  calm  broke ;  a  stiff, 
blustering  wind  veered  from  the  south,  and 
the  cold  retreated  slowly  before  a  storm  of 
snow  which  sent  flakes,  long  and  curly  as 
the  feathers  of  a  moulting  goose,  whirling 
to  the  ground.  A  shroud,  soft  and  light  as 
eiderdown,  was  woven  around  the  frozen 
body  of  the  Lark,  but  an  envious  gust 
of  wind  seized  and  tore  it  to  shreds.  Only 
one  small  square  patch  of  the  covering 
escaped  destruction,  and  strangely  enough, 
— rude  sarcasm  of  the  elements! — that 
patch  hid  the  Lark's  mendicant  sign: 

"I  am  blind!  Please  help  me!  " 


The  Magic  Herb 

"Albeit  for  profit  and    lucre  all  things  are    set   to 
sale." — HOLINSHED. 

The  Doctor  took  his  degree  of  M.D.  in  the 
easiest  way  imaginable,  he  conferred  it  upon 
himself;  or  rather  he  was  graduated  from 
a  college  of  which  he  was  the  founder,  and 
the  faculty  and  committee  on  degrees. 

The  curriculum  of  the  college,  like  the 
Doctor,  was  original  and  unique ;  you  might 
compare  all  the  catalogues  of  all  the  col 
leges  in  the  world,  and  not  find  a  course  of 
studies  bearing  the  faintest  resemblance  to 
the  one  his  offered.  The  reason  is  not  far  to 
seek,  the  Doctor's  college  had  no  curriculum. 

His  peculiar  school  of  medicine  could 
easily  claim  two  advantages  over  every 
other  school ;  it  required  no  laborious  pre 
paration  for  entrance,  it  insisted  upon  no 
arduous  application  for  graduation.  I  for- 
87 


88  The  Lucky  Number 

got  a  third  advantage  and  the  greatest ;  it 
made  the  study  of  materia  medico,  so  easy 
that  a  child  could  grasp  all  the  intricacies 
of  that  difficult  subject  in  less  than  a  week. 
For,  according  to  the  Doctor's  way  of  think 
ing,  there  was  but  one  healing  property  in 
all  nature,  and  that  property  was  contained 
in  the  resurrection  plant. 

To  know  this  plant  thoroughly  was  to 
know  everything  worth  the  knowing  in  med 
icine  ;  because  this  magic  herb,  as  he  termed 
it,  was  a  cure  for  all  the  ills  that  flesh  is  heir 
to,  —  nature's  sweet  restorer,  a  veritable 
panacea,  in  short,  it  was  medicine.  How 
simple  does  the  complicated  science  of  heal 
ing  become  with  the  discovery  of  a  panacea. 

The  Doctor  boasted  that  he  was  the  dis 
coverer  of  the  precious  boon  to  suffering  hu 
manity,  and  he  therefore  deemed  himself 
entitled  to  an  honorary  degree. 

As  the  name  would  signify,  the  resurrec 
tion  plant  is  in  truth  a  miracle  of  nature; 
it  dies  and  comes  to  life  again,  or,  to  be 
more  exact,  it  never  dies.  When  dried  out, 
when  every  particle  of  moisture  has  been 


The  Magic  Herb  89 

consumed,  its  fronds  shrivel  and  curl  con 
vulsively  about  the  centre,  forming  a  small 
ball  of  a  dead  brown  color;  but  only  a  few 
minutes  after  the  plant  is  watered  the  fronds 
uncurl,  spread  out  to  the  light,  and  become 
beautiful  in  their  coat  of  lustrous  green. 

The  Doctor  charged  his  patients  ten  cents 
for  a  magic  herb ;  he  charged  them  nothing 
for  his  call.  Compare  the  cures  he  effected 
with  the  paltry  honorarium  he  received,  and 
you  must  admit  that  the  Doctor  was  a  hu 
manitarian  ;  he  was  a  martyr  as  well,  in  as 
much  as  he  was  a  humanitarian  against  his 
will.  The  discoverer  of  the  panacea  was 
mercenary ;  he  longed  for  riches,  but  people 
persisted  in  misunderstanding  his  motives, 
and  crowning  him  a  philanthropist.  The 
world  has  ever  misunderstood  its  greatest 
characters. 

To  have  philanthropy  thrust  upon  you 
in  this  fashion  is  exasperating,  and  the 
Doctor  chafed  continually  under  the  bur 
den  of  his  unsought  glory.  Every  time  that 
he  received  his  beggarly  stipend  (and  every 
time  that  he  did  n't  receive  it),  he  forgot  his 


90  The  Lucky  Number 

professional  dignity  and  relieved  his  injured 
feelings  in  curses  that  would  have  aroused 
the  envy  of  a  trooper. 

Once  in  his  life,  once  only,  and  then  at 
the  very  outset  of  his  career,  did  he  receive 
a  fee  in  any  way  commensurate  with  what 
he  thought  his  worth;  and  he  would  have 
abandoned  the  practice  of  medicine  in  dis 
gust,  but  the  hope,  ever  floating  before  his 
eyes  like  a  will-o'-the-wisp,  of  gaining 
another  such  emolument  allured  him  so  far 
into  the  swamps  of  beggardom  that  he  found 
it  impossible  to  extricate  himself.  This  par 
ticular  fee  played  such  an  important  part  in 
the  Doctor's  history;  he  planned  and 
schemed  to  gain  it  with  such  astuteness, 
worthy  of  a  better  cause,  that — but  thereby 
hangs  my  tale. 

There  was  a  rumor  current  in  the  neigh 
borhood  that  a  certain  Ann  Garsch,  a  half 
witted  German  seamstress,  had  by  dint  of 
rigid  economy  and  ceaseless  industry  laid 
away  a  big  pot  of  money  for  a  rainy  day. 

When  the  rumor  reached  his  ears,  the 
avaricious  leech,  fearful  lest  the  pot  might 


The  Magic  Herb  91 

disappear  before  his  appearance,  lost  not  a 
second  in  posting  thither.  A  half-witted 
woman,  he  figured,  could  be  bled  far  easier 
than  one  with  a  full  measure  of  wit.  Herein 
his  reckoning  was  at  fault ;  what  Ann  Garsch 
lacked  in  wit  she  made  up  in  parsimony. 
She  was  rather  monomaniac  than  half-witted, 
and  her  monomania  was  saving. 

"Miss,"  began  the  crafty  physician, 
"do  n't  you  want  to  buy  a  magic  herb?" 

He  started  to  enumerate  its  long  list  of 
virtues,  when  she  interrupted,  "Does  it  cost 
anything?" 

"Only  a  dime,"  he  said  seductively, 
"and—" 

"Then  I  don't  want  it;  go  'long." 

"Do  you  expect  me  to  give  'em  away?" 
he  snarled,  "I  'm  selling  'em  now  for  half 
what  they  cost  me,  and  a  quarter  of  what 
they  're  worth." 

"Yer  a  fool  then,  go  'long." 

The  door  had  scarcely  slammed  before  the 
Doctor  forgot  himself  and  his  professional 
dignity,  "She  may  have  a  pot  of  money, 
but  I  '11  bet  the  lid  is  soldered  to  the  pot  so 


92  The  Lucky  Number 

tight  that  you  can't  get  it  off  with  a  crow 
bar. 

However,  he  did  not  lose  all  courage;  he 
felt  as  sure  that  this  toiling  seamstress  had 
money  as  that  a  spinning  spider  makes  a 
web;  nay,  he  was  as  sure  that  she  had 
money  as  that  she  had  life,  and  why  should 
a  physician  of  his  ability  give  up  hope  be 
fore  life  is  extinct  and  money  gone? 

He  allowed  a  whole  month  to  elapse 
before  he  called  again,  in  order  that  she 
might  forget  the  unfavorable  impression 
made  by  his  first  visit;  but  in  that  period 
the  Doctor  did  not  stand  idly  counting  the 
minutes  as  they  glided  away  into  the  past. 
From  the  assiduity  with  which  he  collected 
facts  and  incidents  relating  to  Ann  Garsch's 
life,  you  might  have  thought  this  humble 
seamstress  was  a  character  of  vital  import 
ance  in  present  history,  and  that  he  wished 
to  write  a  biography  which  should  be  stand 
ard  for  all  generations  to  come. 

From  one  source  he  learnt  that  the  per 
sistent  efforts  of  the  Salvation  Army  had 
recently  won  her  for  a  convert,  and  that  she 


The  Magic  Herb  93 

was  now  austerely  religious, — a  characteristic 
well  worth  the  remembering,  and  he  jotted 
it  down  on  his  mental  note  book  with  a  blue 
pencil.  From  another  source  he  learnt  that 
the  seamstress's  lover  had  deserted  her 
and  their  little  child  over  a  year  ago,  and 
that  she  was  waiting  with  yearning  heart  for 
the  day  that  should  bring  him  back;  these 
data  he  wrote  down  in  red  ink.  From  a 
third  source  he  learnt  that  the  Quill  was  the 
woman's  quondam  lover;  a  fact  so  import 
ant  that  it  could  be  remembered  without 
any  notation. 

When  the  Doctor  visited  Ann  Garsch  for 
the  second  time,  he  had  formulated  a  differ 
ent  line  of  attack  against  the  stronghold  of 
her  purse. 

"It  is  in  my  power  to  bring  your  lover 
to  you  again,"  were  his  first  words. 

The  coat  she  was  basting  slipped  from 
her  hands  and  fell  on  the  floor  as  she  stared 
at  him  with  her  large  eyes,  vacant  as  painted 
eyes  on  a  painted  face. 

"Do  it, then, do  it;  in  the  name  of  heaven, 
do,"  she  pleaded,  the  corners  of  her  weak, 


94  The  Lucky  Number 

sensual  mouth  quivering  with  nervous  ex 
citement.  "It  will  cost  money,"  was  his 
brutal  reply,  "for  I'm  poor  and  need 
money." 

Her  eyes  lit  with  an  intelligent  shrewd 
ness.  "How  do  you  know  that  I  have  a 
lover?" 

"How  do  I  know?"  he  exclaimed,  "how 
do  I  know  a  thousand  things?  How  do  I 
know  that  your  mother's  name  was  Johanna 
Melzer,  that  you  were  her  third  child? 
How  do  I  know  that  you  were  born  in  Ham 
burg  and  came  to  this  country  when  you 
were  ten,  and  that  you  will  be  twenty-eight 
on  the  fourth  of  January?  How  do  I 
know  the  Quill  is  the  father  of  that  child," 
— he  pointed  scornfully  to  the  old-fash 
ioned  German  cradle  in  which  her  child 
was  sleeping  peacefully.  "How?  because 
my  magic  herb  gives  me  the  power  to 
read  the  secrets  of  the  mind.  Now  do  you 
believe  that  I  can  bring  your  lover  back?" 

The  clairvoyancy  of  this  uncanny  reader 
of  minds  made  her  shudder;  his  divinations 
struck  with  an  accumulative  horror,  the  first 


The  Magic  Herb  95 

making  her  marvel,  the  last  causing  her  flesh 
to  creep.  She  felt  a  desire  to  run  away,  to 
crawl  within  herself,  that  she  might  escape 
what  must  be  the  malign  influence  of  his 
hypnotic  will. 

"How  much  will  it  cost?"  she  asked 
tremulously. 

"One  hundred  dollars,"  he  answered 
boldly.  The  price  was  tentative,  the  sor 
cerer  was  willing  to  take  less,  he  would  not 
refuse  more. 

If  a  beggar  stopping  you  on  the  street 
should  extend  his  hand  piteously  and  ask 
for  one  hundred  dollars,  you  could  not  be 
more  surprised  than  she  at  the  value  the 
Doctor  placed  on  his  services;  to  her  a  dol 
lar  did  not  represent  ten  dimes,  it  repre 
sented  ten  coats,  and  ten  coats  represented 
almost  two  days  of  agonizing  labor.  Her 
table  of  money  was  not  computed  in  cents 
and  dimes,  but  in  thread  and  stitches.  One 
hundred  dollars  was  Ann's  fortune;  for 
three  years  she  had  been  nibbling  bit  by  bit 
from  her  diurnal  pittance  of  seventy  cents 
to  accumulate  the  sum. 


96  The  Lucky  Number 

What  sacrifice,  what  self-abnegation,  what 
toil  —  toil  that  bends  the  back,  dims  the 
eye  and  wears  the  thumb  to  bone  —  did  this 
one  hundred  dollars  not  symbolize?  It  was 
a  seignorage  that  body  and  soul  demanded 
from  comfort,  health  and  happiness  for  the 
turning  of  flesh  and  blood  into  coin. 

"Very  well,"  answered  the  seamstress, 
calmly,  "I  will  give  you  fifty  dollars  now, 
and  the  other  fifty  on  the  day  when  he 
comes  back  to  me  and  the  child." 

O  Misery  and  Want,  how  can  you  love  so 
much! 

"Fool,"  reflected  he,  "you  might  just  as 
well  have  gotten  two  hundred."  Doubtless 
had  he  been  alone  his  professional  dignity 
would  have  been  forgotten  again.  Straight 
way  he  unrolled  a  brown  plant  from  a  mass 
of  rags  and  papers,  and  placed  it  carefully 
on  the  floor;  then  he  knelt  and  spread  his 
hands  over  it  in  silent  benediction. 

The  benediction  done,  the  Doctor,  in  a 
low  voice  raised  gradually  to  a  higher  and 
higher  key,  began  an  incantation,  metered, 
monotoned ;  and  his  body  swayed  back  and 


The  Magic  Herb  97 

forth  in  rhythmical  unison  with  its  measure. 
There  came  a  pause  in  his  abracadabra, 
' '  Kneel  down  in  prayer, ' '  he  cried  thrillingly, 
and  set  his  body  oscillating  slowly  from 
right  to  left  as  he  modulated  the  sing-song 
of  his  incantation  to  a  subdued,  faint  tone. 

His  gibberish  ran  through  the  threnody 
of  her  prayer  like  a  motif  through  the  or 
chestration  of  a  mournful  overture. 

To  the  ignorant,  superstitious  seamstress, 
the  Doctor's  rigmarole  appealed  with  all 
the  impelling  force  of  the  unknowable  and 
the  sublime.  Terrified,  she  tried  to  turn  her 
eyes  from  him,  but  he  held  them  in  control 
as  irresistibly  as  if  they  were  attached  to 
his  hands  by  wires. 

At  first  perfunctory,  her  prayer — as  the 
supernatural  became  natural  through  its  very 
continuation  —  gradually  became  spontane 
ous,  and  gushed  forth  from  the  depths  of 
her  soul.  Her  voice,  quavering  with  emotion, 
became  fainter  and  fainter,  until  it  died 
away  in  an  inarticulate  moan.  Step  by  step 
she  scaled  the  dangerous  heights  of  religious 
ecstacy. 


98  The  Lucky  Number 

The  baby,  awakened  by  the  noise  and 
frightened  by  the  strange  face,  began  to  cry 
and  scream. 

"Enough,"  shrieked  the  Doctor,  angered 
at  the  interruption,  dizzy  from  the  motion, 
and  weary  of  the  din. 

She  fell  to  the  earth  with  a  shock  that 
made  every  nerve  in  her  body  vibrate  with 
pain  and  drew  a  long,  deep  groan  from  her 
lips. 

"I  will  put  this  magic  herb  in  this  sau 
cer,"  said  the  Doctor,  taking  a  cracked 
china  saucer  from  a  shelf  above  the  stove, 
"and  set  it  out  on  the  window  ledge,  so 
that  the  spirit  of  the  Lord  may  rest  upon  it 
and  bring  its  dead  leaves  to  life  again.  And 
when  the  magic  herb  turns  green  then  will 
your  lover  return,  but  not  before  then." 

"Now  to  find  the  Quill  and  fix  it  up  with 
him,"  he  muttered  to  himself  as  he  passed 
down  the  stairs,  jingling  the  poor  seam 
stress's  coin  in  his  pockets. 

Twice  that  night  did  the  Doctor's  dupe 
arise  to  look  at  the  magic  herb  to  see  if  its 
color  had  changed  to  green,  and  twice  she 


The  Magic  Herb  99 

returned  to  her  bed  disappointed  and  in 
tears. 

On  the  morrow  she  awoke  with  a  thought 
of  the  plant,  she  sprang  to  the  window  and 
threw  the  shutters  wide  open ;  but  still  the 
same  ball  of  dead  brown  met  her  anxious 
gaze. 

Little  basting  did  she  do  that  day;  be 
tween  running  to  the  window  and  talking  to 
the  baby  of  the  good  fortune  that  was  to 
come,  her  time  was  spent. 

Despite  lightning,  thunder  and  downpour 
of  rain,  she  slept  soundly  through  the  suc 
ceeding  night ;  for  she  was  exhausted  from 
loss  of  sleep  and  long-sustained  excitement. 

"It's  green,  it's  green!"  she  cried  joyful 
ly,  as  with  trembling  hand  she  lifted  the 
plant  from  the  window  ledge  the  next  morn 
ing  and  kissed  its  green,  shimmering  fronds, 
sparkling  with  new-born  life.  "I  knew  that 
the  good  Lord  would  forgive  my  sin  and 
answer  my  prayer." 

Ann  Garsch  abandoned  herself  to  happi 
ness  on  that  eventful  day,  and,  daring  the 
sweater's  anger,  entirely  neglected  her  task; 


ioo  The  Lucky  Number 

in  her  eyes  it  would  have  been  sacrilegious 
to  have  threaded  a  needle. 

She  tidied  her  room,  washed  and  dressed 
the  baby  until  he  fairly  shone  from  clean 
liness  ;  then  she  adorned  herself  with  her  best 
gown,  and  waited  complacently  for  her 
lover. 

The  child  laughed  and  lifted  his  chubby 
hands  in  a  vain  attempt  to  catch  the  sun 
beams  as  they  entered  through  the  shutters 
and  fell  in  prismatic  splendor  on  his  cradle ; 
and  the  mother,  finding  the  laughter  infec 
tious,  joined  him  with  a  merry  peal,  and 
the  baby  redoubled  its  efforts  on  seeing  her 
unusual  gayety.  Taking  him  in  her  arms, 
she  began  to  dance  around  the  room  like  a 
madcap,  smothering  her  precious  charge 
with  kisses  at  every  step. 

The  Quill  entered  at  noon  without  prepar 
ing  her  for  his  coming  by  so  much  as  a 
knock  at  the  door;  she  fell  into  his  arms, 
unable  to  speak  from  mere  happiness,  giving 
way  to  hysterical  outbursts  of  tears  and 
laughter. 

When  she  had  recovered  from  her  aphony, 


The  Magic  Herb  101 

Ann  blamed  him  in  one  breath  for  his  base 
ness  in  deserting  her,  and  blessed  him  in 
the  next  for  the  kindness  of  heart  he  dis 
played  in  returning. 

He  stood  grinning  stupidly  through  it  all, 
receiving  her  commendation  and  blame  alike 
impassively,  as  if  considering  his  reception 
in  the  light  of  a  joke. 

The  child  was  evidently  not  frightened 
by  the  stranger's  face,  he  seemed  willing 
enough  to  be  taken  when  the  mother  held 
him  out  to  the  Quill;  for  he  stretched  his 
tiny  arms  fatherward,  and  looked  his  most 
enticing. 

"Damn  the  brat,"  he  said,  turning 
away.  The  voice  was  so  menacing  that 
"the  brat"  began  to  cry  with  all  his  little 
might. 

The  Doctor,  who  was  standing  in  the  hall 
way,  overheard  what  was  going  on  inside, 
and  thought  if  he  wanted  the  remainder  of 
his  bill  he  had  better  make  collections  be 
fore  the  Quill  succeeded  in  forcing  his  mis 
tress  to  lament  the  advent  of  her  lover. 

She  answered  his  knock,  and  gave  him  his 


IO2  The  Lucky  Number 

due  without  a  murmur,  dropping  a  blessing 
with  every  coin  that  she  let  fall  into  his 
itching  palm. 

The  lover  winked  knowingly  and  grimaced 
over  the  seamstress's  shoulder  at  the  Doctor. 

"Who  was  that  man?  Why  did  you  give 
him  that  money?"  he  asked  when  the  door 
had  shut. 

In  response  she  told  the  story  of  the 
wonderful  plant  and  the  miracle  it  had 
wrought. 

"You  don't  tell  me,"  he  whispered  in 
counterfeited  awe;  "  I  must  have  one  of 
'em." 

Before  she  could  stop  him,  the  Quill  was 
darting  down  the  stairs  and  into  the  street, 
fearful  lest  his  confederate  had  outdistanced 
him  and  made  away  with  the  "swag." 

While  Ann  Garsch  stood  at  the  doorway 
with  flushed  cheeks  and  beating  heart, 
waiting  for  her  lover  to  return,  the  Doctor 
and  the  Quill  almost  came  to  blows  at  The 
Lucky  Number  over  the  division  of  the 
spoils. 


The  Return 

A  NGELO  Pascella  stepped  into  Rosaura 
**•  Pascella's  wine  room  and  seating  him 
self  at  one  of  his  mother's  tables,  placed  his 
carpet  bag  on  the  floor  and  called  for  pranzo 
con  mezza  bottliglia  di  vino,  dinner  with 
wine.  The  card-playing,  eating,  drinking, 
arguing  Italians  ceased  their  diversions  long 
enough  to  take  a  look  at  the  new  comer. 

He  was  a  swarthy,  healthy,  prosperous 
looking  fellow  whose  twenty-five  years 
perched  carelessly  on  his  shoulders,  as  if 
perfectly  willing  to  make  room  for  a  twenty- 
sixth.  There  was  nothing  in  his  looks, 
dress  or  manner  that  entitled  him  to  a  sec 
ond  glance,  and  no  suspicion  of  vexing  mys 
tery  arose  in  the  minds  of  Rosaura's  pat 
rons  to  spoil  the  flavor  of  the  sphagetti 
importati,  or  to  interrupt  the  flow  of  wine 
and  words  and  cards. 

103 


IO4  The  Lucky  Number 

Madre  Pascella,  whose  small  shrewd  eyes 
were  boring  through  the  stranger's  carpet- 
sack  to  inventory  the  contents  thereof,  see 
ing  a  prospective  patron  in  the  stranger, 
hastened  to  wait  on  him  herself,  after 
soundly  scolding  the  servant  for  not  paying 
better  attention  to  the  wants  of  her  custom 
ers, — this  rather  to  impress  the  stranger  than 
to  reprove  the  servant. 

Angelo,  on  his  part,  marvelled  much  at 
the  little  change  that  had  taken  place  in  his 
mother's  appearance  in  the  thirteen  long 
years  of  his  absence  from  home.  She  had 
grown  somewhat  stouter,  the  masculine 
growth  on  her  upper  lip  was  darker  and 
thicker  (those  who  spoke  behind  her  back 
called  it  un  mostacchio),  her  hair  had  lost  its 
raven-like  blackness,  her  face  was  a  little 
more  wrinkled,  and  that  was  all.  Rosaura 
Pascella  came  of  a  stock  that  withers  and 
dries,  rather  than  dies. 

The  place,  unlike  its  owner,  was  much 
the  worse  for  wear;  tKe  plaster  on  the  ceil 
ing  and  walls  was  ready  at  any  minute  to 
fall  on  the  floor,  and  seemed  to  beg  for  the 


The  Return  105 

support  of  props  to  prevent  a  tumble  so  dis 
astrous.  The  floor  had  sagged  under  the 
heavy  weight  of  the  refrigerator  and  the 
clumsy  pine  bar;  and  both  bar  and  refriger 
ator  had  arrived  at  that  point  of  decrepi 
tude  where  painting  and  repairing  are  too 
expensive  to  be  practicable.  The  benches, 
tables  and  chairs  —  some  minus  an  arm, 
some  minus  a  leg,  and  some  minus  both  — 
were  the  same  ones  around  which  Antonio 
had  romped  and  played  when  a  boy. 

"Evidently  the  madre  has  not  prospered 
since  I  left  home;  everything  is  going  to 
rack  and  ruin,"  he  reflected  on  looking 
around.  Then,  thinking  of  his  own  material 
success,  "I  shall  put  things  to  rights  in  less 
than  no  time." 

When  the  mother  placed  the  pranzo  on 
the  table,  her  son  found  it  difficult  to  keep 
from  throwing  his  arms  around  her,  kissing 
her  and  crying,  "Mia  carissima."  But  he 
held  the  reward  of  a  more  brilliant  and  sud 
den  surprise  before  his  eyes,  and  restrained 
himself. 

He  did  not  know  whether  to  feel  sad  or 


io6  The  Lucky  Number 

glad  because  she  did  not  recognize  him  after 
an  absence  of  only  thirteen  years.  He  knew 
her,  forsooth !  He  gladdened  himself  with 
the  reflection  that  he  had  outhandsomed  her 
recollection,  and  ate  on  in  silence,  his  eyes 
fixed  on  his  plate.  Ah!  but  the  dish  of 
spaghetti  was  fine,  a  motherly  welcome  in 
itself;  and  he  smacked  his  lips  and  smiled 
contentedly.  She  was  standing  behind  him 
with  her  arms  folded,  waiting  for  a  chance 
to  speak;  she  saw  the  smile  and  broke  in 
abruptly,  "How  do  you  like  it?" 

"Fine,"  he  answered,  "just  like  my 
mother  used  to  make,"  and  he  looked  her 
straight  in  the  eyes. 

She  bowed  acknowledgment  like  one 
used  to  being  complimented,  and  for  whom 
one  compliment  is  of  as  little  value  as 
another. 

"I  see,"  said  she,  pointing  to  the  bag, 
"that  you  are  from  a  distance." 

"Yes,  from  New  Orleans, "  —  the  words 
slipped  from  his  lips  inadvertently  and  he 
wished  that  he  could  recall  them. 

"Ehi!    New  Orleans!"    The  mere  men- 


The  Return  107 

tioning  of  the  name  changed  her  from  an 
inquisitive  questioner  into  a  most  voluble 
informer.  She  had  a  son  there  in  the  fruit 
business  with  her  brother.  A  fine  lad,  he 
was,  too!  He  had  left  home  when  a  boy  of 
twelve  and  had  been  gone  thirteen  years. 
It  was  her  only  child ;  how  she  yearned  to 
see  him  again,  her  boy!  He  might  know 
him,  his  name  was  Angelo  Pascella? 

Angelo  shook  his  head. 

"No?"  she  thought  every  Italian  in  New 
Orleans  must  know  her  boy.  He  had  pros 
pered,  he  was  rich,  he  was  influential.  He 
had  promised  over  and  over  again  in  his 
letters  to  come  home  and  spend  a  few  days 
with  his  old  mother,  but  the  years  had  gone 
by  and  still  he  did  not  come.  Ah!  if  he 
only  knew  the  pleasure  his  return  would 
bring  her,  but  young  men  were  forgetful 
and — 

Someone  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room 
called  for  a  bottle  of  wine,  and  her  chatter 
was  interrupted. 

Angelo  looked  through  the  room  wistfully 
to  see  if  he  could  not  discover  some  old 


io8  The  Lucky  Number 

friends  of  his  boyhood  days.  They  were  all 
gone,  the  old  familiar  faces,  or,  at  least,  none 
of  them  was  there.  A  feeling  of  the  transi- 
toriness  of  things,  of  separation  from  the 
life  of  which  he  had  once  been  a  component 
part,  touched  him  with  a  vague  sense  of 
loneliness.  His  coming  home  had  made 
him  home-sick,  and  he  yearned  to  grasp  his 
sack  and  start  for  New  Orleans  again.  Then 
he  blamed  himself  for  not  revealing  his 
identity — a  word  from  him  and  presto!  all 
would  change;  his  mother's  arm  would 
entwine  lovingly  about  his  neck,  and  his  old 
friends  would  come  crowding  on  the  scene 
as  if  raised  by  magic.  He  would  do  it, 
surprise  or  no;  but  the  sudden  announce 
ment  ought  to  be  surprise  enough. 

A  diminutive,  round-shouldered,  bow- 
legged  Italian  entered  the  room  and  arrested 
Angelo's  attention.  He  had  seen  a  face  like 
that  somewhere,  but  he  could  not  associate 
it  with  any  particular  place  or  time.  But 
the  legs?  There  was  only  one  pair  of  legs  in 
the  world  that  bowed  like  those;  surely 
enough,  it  must  be  little  Pietro  del  Re, 


The  Return  109 

the  tailor.  Many  an  hour  had  he  passed 
in  the  little  tailor's  basement  shop,  an  ever 
welcome  guest,  listening  to  stories  and 
descriptions  of  Italy  and  its  wars. 

He  caught  Pietro's  eye  and  beckoned  to 
him.  ''Would  he  have  a  glass  of  wine?" 
In  a  few  minutes  they  were  talking  of  the 
golden  memories  of  the  days  gone  by. 
Angelo  felt  his  way  carefully,  and  when 
the  opportune  moment  came  he  discovered 
his  identity.  Pietro  gave  his  head  a  jerk 
which  made  the  rings  in  his  ears  dance. 
"What!"  he  exclaimed,  "you  do  n't  say, 
you — !" 

The  sentence  was  never  finished  save  in 
the  mind  of  the  speaker,  for  Angelo  clapped 
his  hands  over  the  mouth  of  the  surprised 
tailor.  "Hush!"  whispered  he,  "I  want  to 
surprise  her,  and  you  will  spoil  it  all." 
This  mysterious  action  did  not  escape  the 
attention  of  the  madre,  who  was  watching 
them  from  behind  the  bar. 

"And  you  mean  to  say  that  she  don't 
know  you?"  he  jerked  his  thumb  over  his 
shoulder  to  designate  the  "she," 


no  The  Lucky  Number 

Angelo  shook  his  head,  "No,  but  I  think 
I  will  tell  her  later,  when  the  others  are 
gone  and  we  are  left  alone." 

Pietro  proposed  a  better  scheme.  An- 
gelo's  was  not  half  dramatic  enough  to  suit 
the  imaginative  tailor's  conception  of  what  a 
theatrical  surprise  should  be.  Angelo  must 
go  directly  to  bed;  and  he,  Pietro,  would 
immediately  betake  himself  home.  In  the 
morning  he  would  arise  early  and  gather  all 
the  old  friends,  Cassaretto,  Barretti,  Salvino, 
De  Stefano,  and  a  host  of  others  whom 
Angelo  had  known  since  his  boyhood  and 
about  whom  he  had  just  been  questioning 
Pietro.  They  would  all  assemble  at  the 
Osteria  dell  Gallo  (the  Inn  of  the  Cock), 
and  apprise  the  madre  who  her  guest  really 
was.  Then  she  would  rush  upstairs,  enter  her 
son's  room  and  have  him  wake  in  her  arms; 
and  when  mother  and  son  came  down  stairs 
the  crowd  would  give  them  a  rousing  wel 
come. 

"Come  vi  place?"  he  asked. 

Angelo  rolled  a  cigarette,  lit  it,  and 
thought  awhile.  "Molto  moltissimo,"  he 


The  Return  in 

answered,  blowing  the  cloud  of  thin  smoke 
away. 

The  tailor  shook  hands,  and  arose  for  an 
immediate  transaction  of  his  part  of  the  bar 
gain. 

At  the  doorway  Rosaura  stopped  him  — 
"Who  is  the  man,  why  did  he  put  his  hand 
over  your  mouth  to  prevent  you  from  speak 
ing?" 

An  imaginative  mind  is  of  service  in  more 
ways  than  one ;  Pietro  manufactured  a  very 
plausible  lie  on  the  spur  of  the  moment. 
"He  is  a  rich  man,  a  very  rich  man,  his 
pockets  are  lined  with  gold.  When  he  told 
me  how  much  he  had,  'What!  so  much  as 
that!'  I  was  about  to  cry,  and  up  goes  his 
hand  over  my  mouth.  You  see,  Madre 
Pascello,  he  knows  me  to  be  an  honest  man ; 
of  the  others  he  is  not  so  sure.  Good 
night." 

Rosaura  was  still  reflecting  on  how  much 
truth  there  might  be  in  the  tailor's  lie 
when  Angelo  approached  and  asked  to  be 
shown  to  his  room.  Here  was  an  opportun 
ity  to  make  this  stranger  show  the  material 


112  The  Lucky  Number 

with  which  his  pockets  were  lined,  and  to 
prove  him  a  Croesus,  or  Pietro  del  Re  a  liar. 

"The  rules  of  the  house  are  to  pay  in 
advance,  "she  said  authoritatively,  her  hands 
on  her  hips. 

The  stranger  smiled  quietly,  drew  a  fat 
roll  of  bills  from  the  inside  pocket  of  his 
vest  and  paid  the  amount  demanded  in  a 
way  that  said,  "And  I  wouldn't  care  if  it 
were  a  little  higher. ' ' 

The  sight  of  it  made  her  eyes  ache  and 
the  palms  of  her  hands  itch.  There  was 
more  than  enough  in  that  one  roll  to  pay 
her  year's  rent,  and  in  the  morning  Carlo 
Neppi,  the  landlord,  would  be  around  clam 
oring  for  his  money ;  and  Neppi  was  terrible 
when  the  rent  was  not  ready,  all  counted  out 
in  dimes  and  quarters  and  dollar  bills  —  he 
would  throw  her  into  the  streets,  and  give 
her  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders  for  sympathy. 

She  lit  a  kerosene  lamp,  and  opened  the 
door  that  shut  the  saloon  from  the  winding 
stairway  which  led  to  the  lodging-house 
above.  As  they  were  moving  down  the 
narrow  hall-way  towards  the  room  desig- 


The  Return  113 

nated  for  Angelo,  he  gave  way  to  a  sudden 
impulse,  caught  her  round  her  ample  waist 
and  kissed  her.  "Go  away,  fool!"  she  cried, 
shoving  him  vigorously  against  the  wall. 
She  entered  the  room,  put  the  lamp  on  the 
washstand,  and  made  her  exit  without  even 
wishing  him  good  night. 

It  was  the  room  he  had  occupied  when  a 
boy;  the  wash-stand,  the  bed,  the  stool,  all 
looked  as  if  they  had  been  waiting  for  him, 
and  a  Murillo  Madonna,  a  cheap,  dust-mel 
lowed  lithograph,  beamed  a  welcome  home 
from  her  place  on  the  wall.  There  was  little 
enough  in  that  bare  room  about  which  old 
memories  could  cluster;  but  they  clung  all 
the  more  closely  to  the  small  space  available, 
like  vines  that  put  forth  their  creepers  to 
mass  their  foliage  about  a  single  nail  in  an 
old  wall. 

Just  below  his  window,  which  looked  on 
the  street,  the  signboard  (a  cock  with  the 
inscription  "Osteria  dell  Gallo")  was  creak 
ing  loudly  as  it  swayed  back  and  forth  in 
the  wind.  Angelo  regulated  the  creaking 
to  the  refrain,  "wel-come  home,  wel-come 


ii4  The  Lucky  Number 

home,"  and  his  imagination  made  the  inani 
mate  cock  crow  the  words  softly.  The 
refrain  soon  lulled  him  to  sleep. 

Downstairs  Rosaura  was  bubbling  over 
with  impatience;  it  seemed  to  her  that 
midnight,  the  hour  for  closing,  would  never 
come,  and  that  the  loiterers  would  never  go. 

"It  is  past  twelve;  come,  pay;  it  is  very 
late,  I  must  close  or  disobey  the  ordinance," 
she  said  to  Enrico  Grassi,  who  was  telling 
her  for  the  tenth  time  how  Paolo  Cherino 
had  cheated  him  out  of  the  last  game  of 
morra,  and  how  Paolo,  and  not  he,  should 
pay  for  the  last  drinks. 

"In  a  minute,  just  a  minute,  and  I  have 
done, ' '  repeated  the  excited  Enrico.  ' '  When 
a  man  has  only  a  half  thumb  and  bends  it 
half-way,  it  would  take  the  devil  himself  to 
tell  whether  it  was  up  or  down.  'Four,' 
says  I !  'Three,'  says  Paolo,  'you  pay.'  Now 
Madre,  I  leave  it  to  you  if — " 

"I  care  not  whether  it  was  up  or  down, 
Paolo  has  gone  and  you  must  pay!"  cried 
the  bored  and  impatient  hostess. 

"Well,"  said  Enrico,  with  a  shrewd  smile, 


The  Return  115 

"you  are  like  the  rest  of  them,  you  are  in 
the  conspiracy  to  cheat  me.  Charge  it!" 
and  out  he  went  with  a  slam  of  the  door. 

"It  was  worth  the  price  of  two  glasses  of 
wine  to  be  rid  of  the  fellow,"  she  reflected 
philosophically,  as  she  locked  the  door  and 
turned  the  lamps  out. 

She  moved  up  the  stairs  as  carefully  as 
if  each  inch  of  the  way  were  connected  by 
wire  with  bells,  and  the  slightest  jar  would 
start  the  bells  ringing  and  awaken  some 
restless  sleeper. 

When  in  her  room  she  removed  her  shoes 
and  walked  cautiously,  on  tip-toe,  to  the 
door  that  divided  Angelo's  room  from  her 
own,  and  pressed  her  ear  against  it.  She 
heard  the  sleeper's  deep  and  regular  breath 
ing,  significant  of  one  who  has  a  light  heart 
and  an  easy  conscience  for  bed  fellows. 
"He  sleeps  too  soundly,"  she  thought, 
"for  a  man  with  so  much  money." 

She  drew  the  bolt  quietly,  bent  her  knee 
against  the  panel  of  the  door,  waited  a  sec 
ond  in  breathless  suspense;  then  pressed 
forward  quickly  and  turned  the  knob;  the 


n6  The  Lucky  Number 

door  opened  as  noiselessly  as  if  the  hinges 
had  been  oiled. 

His  bed  was  just  opposite  the  door,  and 
she  could  see  every  line  of  his  youthful  face 
by  the  light  cast  from  the  lamp  that  she  had 
left  burning  low  on  a  chair  in  the  center  of 
her  own  room. 

She  advanced  to  his  bedside  slowly, 
slowly;  the  distance  was  but  a  few  feet;  to 
her  it  seemed  as  many  miles.  He  had 
his  vest  buttoned  over  his  woolen  night 
gown;  it  was  the  object  of  her  search,  and 
she  noticed  it  before  anything  else.  She 
bent  over  him  so  closely  that  she  could 
feel  the  moisture  of  his  breath  on  her  hot 
cheek. 

As  Rosaura  stood  thus,  holding  her  sti 
letto  in  her  right  hand,  and  firmly  and  gent 
ly  unbuttoning  his  vest  with  her  left  hand, 
it  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  seen  the  man 
before.  So  forcibly  did  the  idea  strike  her 
that  she  paused  in  the  very  heat  and  excite 
ment  of  the  action  to  scan  the  sleeper's  fea 
tures  more  closely. 

He  turned  on  his  side  as  if  troubled  by 


The  Return  117 

her  searching  stare  and  buried  his  face  in 
the  pillow. 

She  raised  her  stiletto,  ready  to  strike  if 
he  awoke.  His  breathing  continued  regular 
and  rounded  as  the  ticking  of  an  oscillating 
pendulum. 

Then  with  one  quick  movement  of  the 
stiletto  she  ripped  his  vest  down  the  back, 
and  the  heavier  half  of  the  garment,  the  half 
with  the  purse,  she  removed  by  a  single 
tug. 

In  an  over-anxiety  to  secure  her  treasure 
without  awakening  him,  she  let  the  stiletto 
slip  and  it  pricked  him  in  the  back.  He 
awoke  with  a  start.  Fearful  lest  he  cry 
aloud,  she  grasped  him  by  the  throat  with 
her  long,  knotty,  masculine  fingers,  and  the 
battle  began  for  supremacy  between  mother 
and  son. 

The  son  was  the  stronger,  but  the  mother 
had  all  the  advantages  of  position,  forewarn 
ing  and  forearming.  He  used  his  strong 
arms  for  levers  and  tried  to  raise  his  body 
to  a  sitting  posture.  Her  grasp  tightened, 
and  he  felt  the  life-breath  being  choked  out 


n8  The  Lucky  Number 

of  him  as  she  forced  him  on  his  back.  He 
swung  his  left  arm  out  in  a  half  circle  and 
struck  her  a  staggering  blow  on  the  temple ; 
she  reeled,  stretched  out  her  long  arm  and 
caught  the  bed-post  to  save  herself  from 
falling. 

Angelo  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  was  on 
the  floor  in  almost  the  time  it  took  Ros- 
aura's  arm  to  reach  out  and  grasp  for  sup 
port.  He  recognized  his  assailant  and  stood 
terror-stricken,  dumb-founded,  paralyzed, 
" Madre  mia,  madre  mia!"  he  gasped  plain 
tively,  beseechingly.  The  stiletto  was 
drawn  back,  flashed,  and  leaped  straight  to 
his  heart. 

She  crept  on  her  hands  and  knees  to  the 
hall  door,  opened  it  and  listened.  The  living 
were  as  silent  as  the  murdered;  the  dead 
and  the  sleeping  could  tell  no  tales. 

Pietro's  sleep  was  by  no  means  as  sound 
as  that  of  Angelo's.  He  tossed  about  rest 
lessly  the  whole  night,  laying  his  plan  of  at 
tack  for  the  great  surprise  on  the  morrow; 
for  Pietro  was  a  simple  soul  who  made  the 
most  of  one  of  those  rare  opportunities 


The  Return  119 

that  gave  him  half  a  chance  to  appear  of 
importance  in  the  community. 

He  had  made  his  plans  a  score  of  times, 
and  changed  them  just  as  often ;  he  would 
go  for  Antonio  Salvino  first  and  have  him 
summon  Gustavo  de  Stefano,  and  Gustavo 
and  Antonio  could  summon  those  who  lived 
south  of  the  Osteria;  whilst  he,  himself, 
could  gather  those  who  lived  in  another 
direction.  No,  he  would  go  first  to  Gae- 
tano  Negrini's,  that  would  save  time,  for 
although  Gaetano  lived  a  little  farther  away, 
he  was  much  the  younger  man  and  could 
move  much  the  quicker.  To  have  them 
assemble  there  together  at  seven  o'clock  to 
the  minute,  that  was  a  task  which  would 
require  skillful  manceuvering !  Rather  than 
be  one  minute  late,  Pietro  preferred  being 
three  hours  ahead  of  time,  and  the  dawn 
had  preceded  him  only  by  a  few  minutes 
when  he  made  his  way  towards  Negrini's 
domicile. 

As  he  passed  the  Osteria  he  was  surprised 
beyond  measure  to  see  Rosaura  assisting 
two  burly,  desperate  appearing  Italians 


I2O  The  Lucky  Number 

(entire  strangers  to  Pietro)  to  shove  a  long 
pine  box  on  a  rickety  express- wagon. 

"Something  always  goes  wrong,"  he 
growled,  "I  wonder  what  business  she  has 
to  nose  about  at  this  hour!  Something  to 
do  with  Angelo,  I'll  wager.  She  always  finds 
out  everything,  the  Madre." 

"A  distinguished  looking  visitor  we  had 
last  night,"  he  began  tentatively. 

She  was  so  surprised  to  see  him  there  that 
she  almost  let  her  end  of  the  box  fall. 

"Oh,  it's  you,  is  it,  Pietro?  And  what 
are  you  doing  around  at  this  time  of  day?" 
She  shouted  some  unnecessary  directions  to 
the  assistants  to  hide  her  discomposure. 

"I  was  about  to  ask  the  same  question 
of  you,"  answered  Pietro  guardedly. 

"That's  my  affair,"  she  retorted  sharply. 

The  timid  tailor  stood  abashed  and  for 
want  of  something  better  to  relieve  his  em 
barrassment,  he  repeated  abstractedly,  "A 
distinguished  looking  visitor  we  had  last 
night." 

She  flushed  perceptibly  and  relaxed  her 


The  Return  121 

hold  on  the  box.  ''Take  care!"  cried  one 
of  the  men. 

"What  visitor?"  She  shifted  her  position 
so  that  her  back  was  turned  to  the  interro 
gator. 

"Why,  the  young  man,  the  good  looking 
chap  with  the  carpet-bag." 

"Oh,  he — how  should  I  know  who  he 
was?  He  went  away  last  night."  Her  dark 
face  flushed  again  and  she  felt  the  blood 
beat  at  her  temples;  she  blest  her  good 
sense  for  having  turned  her  back  to  his  face. 

At  last  the  box  was  on  the  wagon,  and 
the  two  desperados  jumped  on  the  seat  and 
drove  rapidly  towards  the  south. 

"Gone  away!  A  nice  trick  to  serve  me! 
All  my  pains  for  nothing.  I  wonder  if  she 
tells  the  truth?"  he  muttered. 

Rosaura  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  curb 
watching  the  wagon  until  it  passed  from 
sight,  then  she  turned  towards  the  house. 
Pietro  stood  thinking  what  tactics  he  would 
employ  to  gain  the  truth. 

"You  there  yet?"  she  said,  turning 
around, ' '  I  thought  you  had  gone  long  ago. ' ' 


122  The  Lucky  Number 

"I — I  am  not  sure  whether  I  under 
stand,"  answered  Pietro,  apologetically. 
"Did  you  say  he  went  away?" 

"Of  course  I  said  so.  Have  you  grown 
deaf;  do  you  want  me  to  repeat  it  a  dozen 
times?"  She  was  again  the  master  of  her 
expression,  or  rather  of  her  inexpression. 

"Did  he  tell  you  where  he  was  going? 
Did  he  leave  his  name  ?  Did  he  tell  you  when 
he  would  return?" 

"Why  should  he  tell  me  such  things,  what 
am  I  to  him?  I  gave  him  his  lodging  and 
he  paid  me;  there  our  business  ended." 

"But,  Madre  Pascella,  I  know  who  he 
was;  I'll  give  you  ten  guesses,  and  if  you 
guess  right,  I  will  treat  to  a  bottle  of  your 
best,  when  he  returns;  and  if  you  don't 
guess  the  treat  is  yours.  Come,  now,"  said 
Pietro  in  one  breath  anxious  to  surprise 
Rosaura  and  have  a  part  of  his  glory  at  least, 
since  the  full  measure  had  been  denied  him. 

The  blood  left  her  dark  cheeks  and  she 
blanched  visibly.  Had  he  suspected  some 
thing?  Was  he  trying  to  bulldoze  her  into 
a  confession  and  hush-money?  She  would 


The  Return  123 

show  him  with  what  kind  of  a  man  he  was 
dealing. 

''Guess,  guess!  Do  you  think  I  have 
nothing  better  to  do  than  to  stand  here  on 
the  sidewalk  and  waste  my  precious  time 
guessing  with  an  old  fool  when  I  have 
breakfast  to  get  for  twenty?"  She  pushed 
him  to  one  side  and  started  towards  the 
door. 

The  awed  tailor  (it  takes  nine  tailors  to 
make  a  man,  the  world  over),  fearing  lest 
some  one  else,  waiting  inside  with  the  sur 
prise  all  ready,  might  cheat  him  out  of  his 
hard-earned  reward,  and  seeing  his  dream, 
of  glory  fade  into  nothingness,  hastened  to 
say:  "Madre  Pascella,  it  was  your  son  An- 
gelo,  he  told  me  so  last  night  in  the  wine 
room.  That's  why  he  put  his  hand  over  my 
mouth.  'Angelo,  you!'  I  was  about  to  cry. 
'Hush,  you  fool,'  says  he,  and  up  goes  his 
hand  over  my  mouth.  Yes,  it  was  Angelo, 
and  I  alone  am  in  the  secret;  in  me 
alone — ' ' 

"Dio  del  Cielo!"  cried  Rosaura,  and  fell 
swooning  to  the  ground. 


The  Flight  of  a  Night-hawk 

"She  loves  flowers  and  she's  unmarried.  What  luck!" 

— BALZAC. 

T)IDGY"  Donnavan  pitched  his  night- 
hawk  just  around  the  corner  from 
The  Lucky  Number,  threw  a  heavy  blanket 
over  the  flanks  of  his  shivering  horse,  and, 
rubbing  his  nostrils  caressingly,  said ;  "It's 
freezin'  cold,  Major,  an'  hard  pullin',  but 
there  '11  be  heavy  graft  for  us  to-night,  or  I'll 
be  disappinted." 

Pidgy  —  short  for  Pigeon,  shorter  still 
for  Pigeon-toed, — his  night-hawk,  and 
Major,  were  well  known  in  the  neighborhood, 
for  they  had  helped  more  than  one  thief 
elude  the  police,  and  had  played  their  parts 
(they  were  often  cast  for  the  chief  r6les  in 
the  play)  in  more  than  one  daring  robbery. 

I  said  "they,"  because  the  play  could  no 
more  go  on  without  Major  and  the  night- 
hawk  than  it  could  without  Pidgy  himself. 
124 


The  Flight  of  a  Night-hawk       125 

They  were  the  three  legs  of  a  tripod,  remove 
one,  and  crash!  the  whole  comes  tumbling  to 
the  ground.  Two  of  the  legs  of  this  tripod 
must  certainly  have  been  born  for  each 
other;  the  third  I  know  was  made  to  suit  the 
other  two.  Pidgy  and  Major  were  born  to 
illustrate  the  proverb  that  appearances  are 
deceitful, — a  proverb  which  ever  needs  new 
illustrations, — and  to  prove  it  the  night-hawk 
was  manufactured.  Pidgy  expressed  the 
quality  of  stupidity  envisaged ;  Major  that 
of  slowness;  and  the  night-hawk  that  of 
clumsiness; — but  the  rickety,  ramschackle 
night-hawk  could  roll  over  the  ground  noise 
lessly  and  swiftly  as  a  rubber  ball  down  an 
inclined  plane;  Major's  long  bony  body 
could  fly  along  like  a  hare  before  the 
hounds;  Pidgy,  cunning,  alert,  shrewd, 
could  change  the  expression  of  stupidity  on 
his  face  as  easily  as  the  glove  on  his  hand. 

However,  on  this  night  they  had  no  in 
tention  of  violating  the  law ;  they  were  there 
for  an  entirely  different  purpose;  their  in 
tention  was  to  catch  a  thief,  and  not  to  assist 
one  to  escape. 


126  The  Lucky  Number 

Right  in  the  doorway  of  The  Lucky 
Number  stood  the  man  wanted  by  them  and 
the  police;  Pidgy  had  seen  him  there  but  a 
few  minutes  ago,  and  he  had  good  reason  to 
believe  that  he  was  still  there. 

The  police  had  offered  a  reward  of  eight 
hundred  dollars  for  his  arrest  and  convic 
tion,  and  Pidgy  was  anxious  to  catch  "the 
bird,"  not  so  much  for  the  reward,  although 
that  was  by  no  means  to  be  despised,  as  for 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  "the  bird"  confined 
behind  the  bars  of  an  iron  cage  from  which 
there  was  no  escape. 

Three  hours  had  not  passed  since  the 
captain  of  the  station  had  told  him  that  Joe 
Coombs,  alias  "the  Gold  Brick, "  was  wanted 
by  the  police,  and  wanted  so  badly  that 
they  would  cheerfully  pay  the  sum  of  eight 
hundred  dollars  for  his  capture.  The  cap 
tain  knew  if  any  man  could  find  him  it  was 
Pidgy,  and,  furthermore,  he  knew  that  there 
were  reasons  other  than  the  reward  which 
would  act  like  a  spur  in  the  chase. 

"I  dunno,"  said  Pidgy  to  the  captain, 
as  he  opened  his  broad  mouth  on  the  bias, 


The  Flight  of  a  Night-hawk        1 27 

and  grinned  stupidly,  and  peered  rather  than 
looked  at  him  with  his  small,  dull  grey  eyes, 
"I  dunno,"  but  Pidgy  did  know. 

No  sooner  did  he  leave  the  captain  than 
he  began  to  search  for  Kate,  the  flower  girl. 
To  find  Kate  when  looking  for  Joe  is  as  good 
as  finding  one  end  of  a  rope  when  you  want 
the  other;  it  is  only  a  question  of  time  be 
fore  you  have  both.  Kate  and  Joe  were 
ardent  and  inseparable  lovers,  and  Pidgy, 
loving  Kate  with  an  ardor  and  fervor  equal 
to  Joe's,  hated  Joe  as  intensely  as  he  loved 
Kate. 

Pidgy's  vitals  were  being  consumed  by  a 
fire  of  jealousy,  for  he  could  never  under 
stand  why  Kate  should  prefer  "a  gun"* 
and  "prowler"  to  a  cab  driver  of  his  ac 
knowledged  ability ;  and  the  harder  he  tried 
to  solve  the  problem  the  more  difficult  did 
it  seem,  and  the  more  vexed  and  angry  did 
Pidgy  become.  ''It's  them  large  puppy- 
dog  eyes  of  hisn,"  he  would  conclude  after 
giving  the  problem  up  in  confusion.  "I'd 
like  to  jerk  'em  out  of  his  nut,  I  would." 
*Daring  thief. 


128  The  Lucky  Number 

Joe  had  every  advantage  over  him  in  all 
the  qualities  of  appearance  and  manner  that 
go  towards  making  a  man  attractive  to  a 
woman;  but  Pidgy  had  the  advantage  of 
quantity,  of  mere  brute  bulk  and  force,  and 
he  would  have  used  it  more  than  once  with 
telling  effect  had  not  Kate  interfered. 

In  the  charm  of  her  presence  and  against 
her  coqiietry  and  tact,  Pidgy's  strength 
counted  as  naught;  she  could  move  him  as 
easily  as  she  could  twirl  her  flower-tray 
around  her  little  finger.  Once  she  coaxed 
money  from  him  for  the  purpose,  candidly 
avowed,  of  paying  Joe's  fine;  nor  did  she 
have  to  coax  so  very  hard  either  —  simply  a 
demure  little  kiss,  a  slight  pressure  of  his 
hand,  and  Pidgy  drew  out  his  leather  bag 
and  handed  her  the  money.  But  when 
Kate  and  the  money  were  gone,  he  cursed 
himself  for  a  born  fool,  and  kicked  the 
walls  of  his  stable  in  a  fit  of  jealousy  and 
rage;  and  then  he  calmed  himself  by 
reflecting  that  she  would  have  hoodwinked 
Joe  out  of  money  for  a  like  purpose  in 
his  behalf.  Then  he  threw  himself  into  a 


The  Flight  of  a  Night-hawk       129 

towering  rage  again  by  reflecting  that  she 
could  n't  and  she  would  n't. 

Even  a  cab  driver  may  hitch  his  wagon,  if 
not  his  cab,  to  a  star  and  long  for  the  unat 
tainable,  and  the  more  Kate  neglected 
Pidgy  and  showed  favor  to  Joe,  by  so  much 
the  more  did  Pidgy  long  for  Kate.  More 
over,  he  laid  great  stress  on  the  priority  of  his 
acquaintanceship,  and  trusted  that  it  would 
count  for  much  in  his  favor  when  the  battle 
was  finally  decided.  Pidgy  had  known 
Kate  from  the  first  days  of  her  teens,  and 
had  watched  with  fearful  heart  this  tender 
blossom  on  the  tree  of  life,  exposed  as  it 
was  to  such  rough  winds  and  weather,  ex 
pand  slowly  and  wonderfully  into  well- 
rounded  completeness.  Long  before  Joe 
had  ever  known  or  seen  her,  Pidgy  had  ren 
dered  the  girl  many  a  small  service,  and 
some  large  ones,  too,  for  the  matter  of  that ; 
and  on  this  account  Kate  could  never  bring 
herself  to  sever  the  delicate  cords  of  senti 
ment  and  friendship  and  love  that  held 
them  together. 

So  Pidgy  loved  on  with  a  hope  at  which 


ijo  The  Lucky  Number 

hope  itself  mocked,  purely,  courageously; 
and  the  purity  and  courageousness  of  his  love 
were  worthy  of  a  cavalier  in  the  days  of 
chivalry,  for  in  love  and  in  death — the  two 
powers  by  which  God  asserts  man's  equality 
— are  not  all  men  equal? 

Because  Kate  could  love  a  thief  like  Joe 
you  may  have  a  poor  opinion  of  her.  You 
have  already,  no  doubt,  preconceived  that 
she  was  all  a  woman  ought  not  to  be ;  such 
a  preconception,  if  tranquillizing  to  the  pro 
prieties,  is  shocking  to  the  truth,  and  it 
must,  therefore,  be  challenged. 

Kate  was  reared  in  an  atmosphere  of 
crime  and  sin,  she  had  seen  their  terrible 
results,  and  she  had  been  warned  time  and 
time  again  by  the  victims  to  pay  no  heed 
to  their  wiles  and  blandishments.  She 
passed  through  the  foul  atmosphere  un 
tainted  and  unstained.  An  object  lesson  is 
worth  all  the  text  lessons  in  the  world,  and 
Kate  had  learned  that  virtue  was  its  own 
reward ;  and  the  use  of  her  eyes,  without  the 
slightest  aid  from  her  reason,  forced  her  to 
the  conclusion. 


The  Flight  of  a  Night-hawk       131 

For  eight  years  and  over  she  had  contri 
buted  an  unequal  share  towards  the  support 
of  a  worthless  family  by  peddling  flowers. 
With  her  little  tray  of  assorted  roses  and 
carnations,  she  had  passed  day  in,  day  out, 
over  disreputable  thresholds  and  from  saloon 
to  saloon ;  and  the  end  of  her  twentieth  year 
found  her  as  pure  and  blameless  in  the  sight 
of  God  as  she  was  at  the  beginning  of  her 
twelfth. 

In  the  swamps  of  Florida  there  grows  the 
tulip  orchid — "a  learned  man  could  give  it 
a  clumsy  name" — of  the  most  exquisite 
pink  shade  and  the  most  delicate  shape; 
and  this  flower  hangs  pendant  upon  its  stem, 
and  dreams,  like  Heine's  palm,  of  purer 
worlds,  as  it  sways  to  and  fro  in  that  pesti 
lential,  miasmatic  air.  In  Kate  human  na 
ture  had  produced  such  an  anomaly. 

While  Pidgy  was  driving  along  leisurely 
towards  Kate's  home  after  leaving  the  cap 
tain,  he  caught  sight  of  Joe  in  the  doorway 
of  The  Lucky  Number.  Pidgy  was  not 
surprised  to  see  him,  he  half  expected  it;  for 
Joe  and  Kate  usually  met  there,  and  from 


132  The  Lucky  Number 

the  logic  of  experience  he  deduced  the  con 
clusion  that  they  had  appointed  that  partic 
ular  spot  to  meet  each  other  on  this  night. 
The  police  could  easily  have  been  warned 
and  Joe  captured  then  and  there,  but 
Pidgy  had  two  good  reasons  for  not  inform 
ing  on  him ;  first,  the  police  would  probably 
claim  the  whole  reward  for  themselves;  and 
second,  he  would  cheat  himself  out  of  the 
vengeance  for  which  he  thirsted.  He  wanted 
"the  Gold  Brick"  to  know  —  and  he  hoped 
the  knowledge  would  torture  him  to  death 
slowly, — that  it  was  Pidgy  Donnavan's  power 
and  skillful  manoeuvering  that  had  landed 
him  behind  the  bars. 

When  Pidgy  pitched  his  cab  on  the  corner 
near  The  Lucky  Number,  he  had  resolved 
upon  an  audacious  adventure;  and  in 
the  dense  darkness  he  waited  impatiently  for 
things  to  reach  the  point  that  would  admit 
of  his  assistance  in  their  development. 

Meanwhile  "the  Gold  Brick"  was  grow 
ing  anxious  and  restless,  and  he  found  it 
difficult  to  remain  at  the  tryst;  for  not  long 
before  he  had  heard  from  a  friend,  who  was 


The  Flight  of  a  Night-hawk       133 

on  the  inside  and  had  "a  pull,"  that  he  was 
wanted  at  the  station,  and  wanted  eight 
hundred  dollars'  worth. 

He  thought  that  the  world  was  unjust, 
and  that  the  police,  who  ran  it,  would  turn 
paradise  into  a  botch ;  because  he  had  not 
been  at  all  concerned  in  the  daring  and  suc 
cessful  robbery  for  which  they  were  holding 
him  responsible,  and  in  fact  no  one  was 
more  surprised  than  he  to  hear  the  story 
of  its  execution. 

But  that  was  neither  here  nor  there ;  he 
was  wanted  and  if  the  police  found  him,  it 
was  an  easy  matter  "  to  fix"  their  scales',  and 
find  him  wanting. 

There  was  but  one  thing  to  do ;  to  leave 
town,  and  leave  quickly.  His  train  started 
at  nine  and  he  was  ready  to  go,  ticket 
and  baggage  were  in  his  pocket;  but  he 
dared  not  go  without  saying  good-bye  to 
Kate. 

Unfortunately,  he  had  made  the  appoint 
ment  with  her  on  the  night  before,  and  to 
leave  so  suddenly  and  without  any  explana 
tion  might  offend  her  egregiously,  and 


134  The  Lucky  Number 

smooth  the  way,  heretofore  stony  and  rough 
enough,  for  the  entrance  of  his  persistent 
and  ubiquitous  rival. 

She  had  promised  to  be  there  at  half  past 
eight,  and  it  was  now  twenty  minutes  to 
nine,  and  she  was  nowhere  in  sight. 

The  cold  was  growing  sharper  and 
more  penetrating  with  every  minute,  and 
Joe's  patience  waned  as  the  cold  waxed. 
The  snow,  that  had  fallen  steadily  during 
the  day,  was  being  swirled  into  wave-shaped 
drifts  and  piles;  so  the  street  had  the  ap 
pearance  of  a  great  heaving  ocean  of  clear 
white ;  and,  as  if  to  perfect  the  resemblance, 
this  same  wind-sprite  was  gathering  huge 
handfuls  of  the  snow,  grinding  it  into  pow 
der  and  blowing  it  about  like  so  much  ocean- 
spray. 

Joe  jumped  up  and  down,  first  on  one 
foot,  then  on  the  other,  and  threw  his  arms 
vigorously  across  his  chest  to  keep  the  slug 
gish  current  of  his  blood  from  stagnation, 
and  his  patience,  slowly  sinking,  from  death. 
He  gazed  anxiously,  nervously,  down  the 
long  vista  of  the  street,  and  still  no  Kate. 


The  Flight  of  a  Night-hawk       135 

The  chances  of  catching  his  train  were  re 
duced  by  another  five  minutes,  when  he, 
reflecting  that  there  was  a  slight  possibility 
of  reaching  the  station  in  time  by  the  aid  of 
a  cab,  saw  the  tall  robust  figure  of  Kate, 
clad  in  a  long  black  coat,  hurriedly  making 
its  way  up  the  street.  The  flickering  light 
of  the  street-lamps  made  her  form  stand  out 
in  silhouette-like  relief  against  the  back 
ground  of  dazzling  white. 

He  raised  the  collar  of  his  ulster  and, 
holding  the  ends  of  it  over  his  face,  hastened 
forward.  They  met  where  one  end  of  the 
short  dark  alley  that  bisects  the  block 
loses  its  identity  in  the  main  street. 

"Ther  ain't  no  time  left  for  billin'  and 
cooin'  around,  Kate,"  remarked  Joe,  after 
blurting  out  what  had  happened. 

"Cab,  sir,"  bawled  Pidgy,  through  his 
thick  heavy  scarf,  as  he  drove  towards  them 
leisurely. 

"Yes,  hold  on!"  called  Joe.  He  drew 
Kate  to  him,  kissed  her  passionately,  and 
jumped  into  Pidgy's  night-hawk. 

"Good-bye!    Good  luck!"   called    Kate. 


136  The  Lucky  Number 

"I  love  you,  I  love  you,  I  will  always  love 
you!" 

"Make  my  train  and  there's  a  V  for 
you;"  Joe  slammed  the  door  and  the  cab 
started. 

To  Pidgy,  Kate's  adieu  sounded  like  the 
falling  melancholy  notes  of  a  funeral  march 
for  the  dead  love  that  had  lived  and  yearned 
in  his  heart  but  a  minute  ago.  He  clenched 
his  teeth  firmly,  swung  his  craft  northwards, 
and  started  on  at  full  speed.  The  bird  had 
hopped  right  into  the  trap,  and  had  taken 
the  precaution  of  locking  itself  in;  if  the 
bird  "ducked"  it  would  be  the  fault  of  the 
trap,  and  not  of  the  sportsman. 

The  jail  was  on  the  way  to  the  railway 
station,  and  just  a  few  blocks  to  the  east; 
he  had  only  to  stop  his  cab  there,  throw  the 
door  open,  grab  his  bird  by  the  throat,  call 
to  the  police,  claim  his  reward,  and  laugh 
right  in  the  bird's  face.  When  the  bird  was 
in  the  "stir"*  and  the  eight  hundred  dollars 
in  his  pockets,  he  could  start  a  livery,  marry 
Kate,  and  thus  see  the  two  great  ambitions 

*Penitentiary. 


The  Flight  of  a  Night-hawk       137 

of  his  life  accomplished, —  the  one  great  am 
bition,  I  might  say,  for  the  one  was  but  the 
complement  of  the  other. 

The  depressing  music  of  the  funeral 
march  that  her  adieu  had  awakened  in  his 
heart  died  away  before  the  stirring,  inspirit 
ing  notes  of  a  march  of  triumph. 

"Go  it,  Major,  go  it!"  and  Pidgy's  whip 
came  down  on  his  back  with  a  crash.  A 
whip  was  seldom  if  ever  used  on  Major,  for 
it  was  seldom  needed ;  but  when  the  lash 
snapped  Major  knew  that  the  occasion  was 
extraordinary,  and  he  struck  his  best  pace. 
The  cab  sped  over  the  ground  as  if  Major 
were  laboring  under  the  delusion  that  he  was 
attached  to  a  sulky  and  trotting  on  a  race 
track. 

Several  times  he  thought  that  he  heard 
the  sound  of  carriage  wheels  breaking 
through  the  crisp  snow  close  behind  him ;  he 
turned  on  his  box  to  peer  through  the  dark 
ness.  He  could  discover  nothing,  but  he 
still  heard  the  sound,  and  his  fancy  coined 
the  superstition  that  he  was  running  a  race 
with  a  phantom  cab  whose  wraith  of  a 


138  The  Lucky  Number 

driver  was  trying  to  upset  him,  and  seize 
his  prize. 

Pidgy  intended  that  no  driver  real  or 
imaginary  should  catch  up  to  him,  and  he 
made  his  horse  speed  through  the  snow  as 
the  poor  beast  never  sped  through  it  before. 

Major  was  crossing  a  corner  at  break-neck 
speed,  when  Pidgy  jerked  him  back  on  his 
haunches  with  a  suddenness  that  almost 
rolled  the  night-hawk  into  the  snow. 
"W-h-o-a,  Major,  w-h-o-a!"  he  called 
hoarsely. 

In  heaven's  name,  what  manner  of  cab 
was  that  whose  horse  had  passed  through 
his  night-hawk  with  the  speed  of  the  wind, 
and,  like  the  wind,  left  no  rack  or  ruin  be 
hind?  And  what  manner  of  person  was 
that  seated  within,  and  looking  for  all  the 
world  like  Kate? 

"Ye're  got  'em  again,  man,  and  without 
drink,"  Pidgy  whispered  to  himself,  wiping 
the  cold  sweat  from  his  brow.  If  a  cab  run 
through  yer  cab,  it  ud  bust  it  clean;  and 
if  it  did  run  through  yer  cab  and  not  bust 
it,  it  wan't  no  cab,  no  nothing.  And  as  fer 


The  Flight  of  a  Night-hawk       139 

Kate  bein'  in  that  cab,  how  could  Kate  be 
in  the  cab,  if  it  wan't  no  cab?"  Thus  did 
Pidgy  argue  his  fancy  out  of  the  illusion  of 
a  phantom  cab. 

Now,  four  blocks  more  to  the  right,  and 
they  would  be  at  the  jail.  He  turned  down 
the  dark  side  street,  his  hand  trembling  so 
violently  that  he  could  scarcely  keep  a  tight 
rein. 

Another  block  and  he  could  pull  his  cab 
up  in  front  of  the  broad,  stone  stairs  of  the 
"boobyhatch;"  already  he  could  descry 
through  the  darkness  its  somber  gray  walls. 

Pidgy  gave  an  involuntary  shudder;  he 
had  been  behind  those  walls  himself,  and 
knowing  how  gray  and  blank  and  desolate 
they  were,  he  preferred  the  darkness  and 
the  cold  of  the  outer  world  a  thousand  times. 

A  phantasmagorial  hand  was  trying  to 
jerk  the  lines  from  his  grasp  and  pull  Major 
back  on  his  reckless  course;  and  right  in 
front  of  him,  so  near  that  its  lips  almost 
touched  his  own,  was  a  face,  ghostly  white, 
whiter  than  the  snow  that  glistened  on  the 
roof  of  the  jail — the  hand  and  the  face  were 


140  The  Lucky  Number 

Kate's.  The  lips  of  that  face  opened  and 
moaned  beseechingly,  "For  God's  sake 
do  n't  take  him  there,  anywhere  but  there! 
I'll  kill  myself  if  you  do!  I  love  him;  I  love 
him;  I  will  always  love  him!" 

That  it  was  a  figment  of  the  imagination 
Pidgy  knew  then,  just  as  well  as  he  knows 
it  to-day;  but  for  a  moment  the  illusion  was 
real  and  vivid  and  horrible  enough.  He 
knew,  too,  that  the  voice  which  came  from 
those  lips  was  only  the  voice  of  his  own 
conscience,  but  it  was  sepulchral  and  terrify 
ing  for  all  of  that. 

"No,  by  God,  I'll  not!"  he  muttered. 
"  The  girl  loves  him  and  I  loves  the  girl,  let 
the  girl  have  him !  Damn  his  puppy-dog 
eyes  anyway!"  He  swung  his  cab  on  past 
the  jail,  and  veering  in  another  direction, 
made  for  the  station. 

Whether  it  was  from  the  battle  of  conflict 
ing  emotions  or  the  intense  excitement,  or 
the  excessive  jolting  and  rocking,  the  fact  is 
Pidgy  grew  dizzy ;  and  it  seemed  to  him  that 
his  cab  stood  still  and  the  ground  glided 
and  slipped  from  under  Major's  hoofs. 


The  Flight  of  a  Night-hawk        141 

Joe  was  wondering  why  the  man  turned 
corners  so  often,  but  it  was  too  dark  to  tell 
where  they  were  going  and  he  thought  the 
cabby  must  surely  know. 

It  was  just  three  minutes  to  nine  when 
the  poor,  wind-broken,  foam-covered  animal 
stopped  in  front  of  the  depot.  Joe  flung 
down  the  fare,  and  darted  for  his  train. 

"And  neither  of  'em  'ell  never  know  it, 
Major,"  muttered  Pidgy,  as  he  gulped  down 
a  big  lump  in  his  throat  and  ploughed  home 
ward  through  the  pitiless  darkness  of  the 
night. 


A  Fair  Exchange 

"What  entered  into  thee 
That  was,  is  and  shall  be." 

— BROWNING. 

PART  I. 

AN  OLD  HYPOTHESIS. 

air  of  wealth  and  luxury  that  hov- 
-1-  ered  about  the  nurse  and  the  baby  she 
carried  would  have  told  you  at  a  glance  that 
they  did  not  belong  in  the  tenement  district 
through  which  they  were  passing.  The  ex 
pensive  linen  of  the  baby,  and  the  nurse's 
long  gray  cloak  and  Alsatian  cap,  with  its 
fluttering  blue  ribbons,  stood  out  as  boldly 
in  relief  from  the  squalor  of  that  poverty- 
stricken  district  as  a  box  of  flaring  red  gera 
niums  from  the  soot  blackness  of  a  tene 
ment  window  frame. 

Nevertheless,  the  girl  carried  the  baby  into 
one  of  those  tumble-down  residences  of  the 
poor,  and  up  the  winding  flight  of  greasy, 
142 


A  Fair  Exchange  143 

worn  stairs.  When  she  had  left  the  last 
stairs  of  the  fourth  flight  behind,  she  walked 
down  the  narrow  hall,  and  knocked  at  the 
first  door  at  her  left. 

An  unkempt  woman,  bent,  flat-chested 
and  thin-featured,  opened  the  door. 

"Oh,  it's  you,  Mag,  is  it?     Come  in." 

On  the  carpetless  floor  of  the  room  that 
the  girl  entered  three  babies  were  playing 
and  crying;  or,  to  be  more  explicit,  two 
were  crying,  and  one  was  playing. 

"How's  the  kids,  ma?"  asked  Mag. 

Ma  shrugged  her  stoop  shoulders,  and 
pointed  with  her  hand  to  the  articles  in 
question  in  a  way  that  said,  "They  're  there, 
see  fer  yourself;  what  does  yer  care  any 
way." 

The  hands  and  shoulders  were  in  the 
right,  for  the  daughter  thought  the  mere 
question  displayed  sufficient  interest  in  the 
younger  members  of  the  family,  and  she 
paid  no  further  attention  to  them. 

The  atmosphere  was  stifling,  choking. 
The  June  sun  poured  its  molten  heat 
through  the  broken  glass  panes  of  the  low 


144  The  Lucky  Number 

windows  with  a  remorseless,  savage  energy ; 
the  squat  ceiling  and  the  paperless  walls, 
from  which  the  plaster  was  dropping  in  large 
squares  and  oblongs,  seemed  to  vie  with 
each  other  in  their  greed  to  catch  every  sun 
ray  that  entered.  From  the  next  room, 
kitchen,  laundry,  and  living  apartment,  all 
in  one,  there  came  floating  in  a  swarm  of 
oppressive  odors,  strongly  suggestive  of  the 
frying  pan. 

"What  brings  yer  here  again,  Mag?" 
asked  the  mother  after  they  had  sat  through 
a  minute's  embarrassing  silence. 

"I'm  going  to  run  out  to  the  grocery- 
man's  picnic  for  the  rest  of  the  afternoon, 
and  I  thought  as  you'd  mind  the  kid  for 
me." 

Without  waiting  for  a  reply  the  girl  doffed 
her  gown  and  cap,  and  laid  them  on  the 
trundle  bed  carefully.  Then,  in  a  manner 
that  showed  she  had  done  the  same  thing 
before,  she  divested  her  charge  of  its  fine 
linen,  and  dressed  it  in  a  garment  of  cheap, 
coarse  material,  brought  with  her  for  the 
purpose.  As  she  undressed  him — for  it  was 


A  Fair  Exchange  145 

a  boy  —  the  delightful  fragrance  of  violet 
perfume  was  perceptible  for  the  second  or 
two  before  it  was  suffocated  in  a  struggle 
for  survival. 

The  unrobing  and  robing  done,  she  placed 
the  baby  on  the  floor  to  amuse  himself  as 
best  he  could,  which  was  not  very  well,  for 
the  child  of  luxury  rebelled  against  the 
plebeian  surroundings,  and  he  sent  up  an 
agonizing  howl  every  time  the  proletarian 
children  touched  the  hem  of  his  skirts. 

The  mother  grumbled  about  extra  work, 
an  ungrateful  daughter,  and  the  brats  of  the 
rich. 

"Here,  take  this,"  and  Mag  handed  her 
a  silver  dollar;  having  expected  it,  she  was 
prepared  to  overcome  the  grumbling. 

"It 's  all  I  could  save  this  week." 

"She  comes  handy,"  said  the  woman 
rolling  the  dollar  in  a  rag  of  a  handkerchief, 
and  slipping  it  back  into  her  rag  of  a  gown. 
"The  old  man's  been  out  of  work  all  week, 
and  ain't  brought  home  a  red.  You're  a 
good  gurl,  Mag,  I  allus  said  it!  Ain't  you 
got  another  'roller'  fer  yer  ma?" 


146  The  Lucky  Number 

"How's  the  old  man,"  asked  the  girl 
evasively. 

"Find  and  ask  him,"  replied  the  mother, 
"he's  rolling  around  drunk  somewhere's; 
ain't  seen  'im  fer  two  days." 

"Now,  Harvey  R.  Garwood,  Jr.,  you  be 
good  while  I  'm  gone  or" — and  Mag  shook 
her  fist  at  the  child  from  the  doorway  as 
a  parting  admonition,  and  left  for  the  pic 
nic.  The  child  yelled  and  screamed  with 
all  the  power  of  his  little  lungs,  for  he  was 
finding  his  strange  companions  and  abiding 
place  more  and  more  loathsome;  and  when 
his  nurse  disappeared  he  felt  like  a  ship- 
captain  who  sees  his  mutinous  crew  sail  out 
on  the  open  seas,  far  away  from  the  deserted 
island  where  the  wretches  have  left  him  to 
die. 

At  five  o'clock  Mag  returned  to  the  tene 
ment,  her  cheeks  deeply  flushed,  and  her 
breath  smelling  of  whiskey.  She  laughed 
hilariously  as  she  gave  her  mother  an  inco 
herent,  but  highly-colored  account  of  the 
picnic;  and  the  mother  laughed  just  as  hilar 
iously,  and  the  comments  with  which  she 


A  Fair  Exchange  147 

interspersed  Mag's  narrative  were  just  as 
incoherent  as  the  narrative  itself.  She  had 
spent  her  dollar  at  The  Lucky  Number  for 
the  same  good  cheer  that  Mag  had  found 
at  the  picnic. 

The  girl  hastened  to  prepare  her  charge 
for  the  return  homeward.  "Hold  on,  Mag, 
hold  on,"  hiccoughed  the  mother.  "I  got 
a  scheme  for  both  en  us;  bin  thinkin'  on  it 
all  afternoon.  Why  can't  us  let  our  kid  be 
brung  up  among  the  swell  uns,  eh?  What's 
wrong  with  my  kid  doddin'  round  in  silk 
and  livin'  swell,  I  wants  ter  know?  What's 
the  difference  twixt  my  kid  and  their  kid?" 

She  shrieked  with  laughter,  and  then 
cried  her  eyes  red  with  maudlin  tears;  when 
the  tears  ceased  and  the  laughter  subsided, 
she  explained  her  scheme:  she  fancied  that 
there  was  a  strong  resemblance  between  her 
youngest  son  and  her  daughter's  charge. 
Why  not  change  them?  Why  not  let  her  boy 
grow  up  rich  and  well  tended,  and  the  rich 
boy  wear  rags?  When  he  grew  to  a  man's 
estate  he  would  reward  them  richly  for  the 
clever  ruse  they  had  played  for  his  benefit. 


148  The  Lucky  Number 

This,  in  brief,  was  the  plan  that  the  whis 
key  had  inspired  in  her  heated  imagination, 
and  which  she  proceeded  to  give  in  detail 
and  with  much  circumlocution  and  many  bit 
ter  invectives  against  the  rich,  who  were 
cheating  them  at  every  turn  and  crook  of 
the  long  road  of  life. 

Mag  was  just  drunk  enough  to  consent 
to  such  a  wild  undertaking;  the  whiskey  in 
her  case,  as  in  her  mother's,  had  exagger 
ated  the  faint  resemblance  of  the  children 
into  a  positive  likeness,  and  she  swore  the 
one  might  easily  be  made  to  do  service  for 
the  other. 

So  the  pauper  went  to  the  palace,  and  the 
prince  remained  in  the  slums. 

PART  II. 

ENVIRONMENT A  PROBABILITY. 

At  the  rear  of  The  Lucky  Number,  under 
a  hollow  made  by  the  framework  of  the  out 
side  stairway,  is  a  heap  of  old  rags  collected 
by  "The  Kid,"  and  used  by  him  for  a 
"doss."* 

*Bed. 


A  Fair  Exchange  149 

What  the  origin  of  "The  Kid"  was  no 
one  knew,  he  did  not  even  know  himself; 
he  had  slept  there  as  far  back  as  the  oldest 
patron  of  the  place  could  remember,  and 
beyond  that  there  was  nothing  known  of 
him;  but  who  cared  one  way  or  the  other? 

"The  Kid's"  antics  were  amusing,  and 
he  was  in  no  one's  way ;  in  fact,  he  proved 
a  positive  attraction  to  the  place,  and  he 
was  allowed  to  remain  there  unmolested. 
It  afforded  the  hobos  infinite  amusement  to 
see  the  little  fellow  drain  a  can  of  beer, 
smoke  a  pipe  of  strong  tobacco,  sing  vile 
songs,  and  tell  still  viler  stories.  Had  a 
full-fledged  hobo  told  the  same  stories  or 
sang  the  same  songs,  they  would  have 
fallen  flat,  but  done  by  "The  Kid"  they 
had  a  zest  and  drollery  which  provoked 
delirious  laughter  and  rounds  of  applause. 
"He's  knowin',  dat  'smooth';*  he's  wise 
as  'a  jocker',1]-  they  would  say  as  they 
winked  slyly  and  poked  one  another  in  the 
ribs. 

*Young  thief. 

fOld  thief,  one  with  whiskers. 


150  The  Lucky  Number 

The  lore  of  things  forbidden  was  as  an 
open  book  to  him,  for  he  had  the  most  able 
teachers  in  the  world,  and  he  was  a  particu 
larly  brilliant  pupil ;  often  the  masters  quar 
reled  among  themselves  for  the  honor  of 
having  taught  him  in  this  or  that  branch  in 
which  he  excelled. 

Such  surroundings  and  such  influences  had 
moulded  his  exterior  just  as  ductile  metal 
is  shaped  by  the  rigid  form  of  the  mould 
into  which  it  is  poured.  He  could  not  have 
been  over  ten  years  of  age,  but  his  growth 
had  been  so  stunted  by  the  beer  and  the 
tobacco  that  he  was  no  taller  than  the  average 
healthy  boy  of  eight.  His  thin  chest,  and 
thinner  body,  his  hollow  cheeks  and  sallow 
complexion — sallow  to  the  point  of  green 
ness — bespoke  a  poorly  nourished  and  mor 
bid  condition  of  the  tissues. 

Had  he  stuck  his  head  through  a  canvas 
and  exposed  his  face  only  to  view,  it  would 
have  puzzled  you  to  have  guessed  his  age. 
The  lines  of  his  face  were  hard  and  set,  its 
expression  was  that  of  an  habitual  criminal 
grown  old  in  vice,  and  yet  the  features  were 


A  Fair  Exchange  151 

those  of  a  mere  boy  in  the  formative  period 
of  life.  But  the  crux  of  the  difficult  puzzle 
was  the  eyes;  he  had  the  most  serene,  inno 
cent  brown  eyes  it  was  ever  your  pleasure 
to  look  into,  and  with  those  innocent  eyes  he 
could  look  you  straight  in  the  face  and  tell 
lies  by  the  score. 

One  day,  while  going  on  an  errand  for 
Mike,  the  bartender,  he  lost  his  way,  an 
unusual  thing  for  him  to  do ;  and  while  wan 
dering  about  he  stumbled  into  the  most  im 
posing  residence  street  of  the  city.  "The 
Kid"  had  never  been  there  before;  indeed 
it  was  one  of  his  first  trips  beyond  the 
limits  of  the  slums.  He  had  no  more  occa 
sion  for  going  into  this  residence  district  of 
the  wealthy  than  a  child  of  a  millionaire  has 
for  going  into  the  slums. 

"Gawd!"  he  exclaimed,  "but  this  is  dead 
swell,"  and  he  sat  on  a  brown  stone  coping 
to  take  it  in  slowly. 

"Hi,  you  there,  get  off  that  fence!" 
yelled  a  man  from  the  yard,  "I  just  cleaned 
it!" 

"The    Kid"    put    his    right  hand  to  his 


152  The  Lucky  Number 

nose  and  jumped;  the  action  was  so  comical 
that  the  man  laughed  aloud.  His  laughter 
aroused  the  urchin's  anger,  "I'd  like  ter 
have  him  alone  by  De  Lucky  Number,"  he 
muttered. 

A  boy  with  long  golden  curls,  and  dressed 
d  la  Fauntleroy  was  riding  down  the  street 
on  a  velocipede. 

"Hello!"  cried  the  boy. 

"Howdy!"  answered  "The  Kid." 

"My  name  is  Harvey  R.  Garwood,  Jr.; 
what's  yours?" 

He  was  about  to  answer  that  he  was 
called  "The  Kid,"  but  it  sounded  like  noth 
ing  in  comparison  with  the  long,  aristocratic 
roll  of  Harvey  R.  Garwood,  Jr.,  so  he 
checked  himself  and  said  simply,  "I  ain't 
got  none!" 

"That's  funny,"  laughed  the  other;  "my 
mamma  says  everybody  has  a  name. ' ' 

"Well,  yer  ma  don't  know  it  all.  I 
knows  lots  of  folks  what  ain't  got  no 
names."  And  he  spat  straight  for  an  elm 
tree,  some  eight  or  ten  feet  off,  and  hit  it 
squarely. 


A  Fair  Exchange  153 

"That's  great,"  shouted  Lord  Fauntle- 
roy,  "do  it  again." 

The  Arab  spat  again  with  equal  precision. 

"Now  let  me  try  it,"  and  the  Lord  tried 
until  the  roof  of  his  mouth  became  dry 
and  parched. 

"Say,  but  yer  green/'  said  "The  Kid," 
with  a  look  of  infinite  disparagement. 

Anxious  to  show  his  other  accomplish 
ments  he  played  drunk  and  rolled  and  stag 
gered  about  on  the  grass  like  an  old  intoxi 
cant  ;  Harvey  laughed  until  the  tears  rolled 
down  his  cheeks. 

"Maybe  you'd  like  to  ride  on  my  veloci 
pede?  I  can  ride  it  all  over.  Do  you  know 
how  to  ride?" 

"Fer  sure  I  do,"  he  had  never  been  on 
one  in  his  life,  but  there  was  nothing  "The 
Kid"  was  afraid  to  try,  and  he  rode  away  as 
if  he  had  come  into  the  world  on  a  wheel. 
He  liked  the  exercise  so  well  that  his  first 
intention  was  to  run  away  with  the  veloci 
pede,  but  he  wanted  to  hear  "de  swell  guy" 
praise  his  cleverness,  so  he  turned  around 


154  The  Lucky  Number 

and  rode  back,  trusting  to  luck  to  make 
away  with  it  afterwards. 

He  found  "de  swell  guy"  in  a  flood  of 
tears,  crying  as  though  his  heart  would 
break. 

"What  is  yer  spilling  'bout,  I  did  n't  hurt 
de  ding? 

"I  lost  my  new  knife  with  the  pearl 
handle  and  four  blades.  I  1-o-s-t  it!"  he 
boohooed. 

"The  Kid"  grinned,  "  Here  it  be,"  and 
he  handed  the  knife  to  him  with  an  air  made 
up  of  amusement  and  superiority. 

"Where  did  you  find  it?  I  looked  all 
over  for  it,"  and  his  face  changed  from 
grave  to  gay  with  child-like  rapidity. 

"  I  dlipped  it  from  yer  prat-kick."* 

"Where  did  you  find  it?  I  did  n't  under 
stand  where  you  said?" 

"Say,  but  yer  green.  I  means  I  took 
her  from  yer  back  pocket,"  answered  the 
rogue  blandly. 

*Britch  is  used  to  designate  the  front-pocket;  gerve, 
vest-pocket;  insider,  inside  coat-pocket;  fob,  small 
side  coat-pocket;  smoker,  any  pocket  in  which  a 
pocket-book  (skin)  happens  to  be. 


A  Fair  Exchange  155 

"From  my  pocket?" 

"Yop!" 

"But  I  didn't  feel  you  take  it,"  and  his 
eyes  opened  wide  as  saucers. 

"Say,  but  yer  easy.  Dat's  de  game; 
course  yer  didn't  feel  it!" 

"If  you  show  me  the  trick,  I'll  let  you 
ride  my  wheel  again." 

"Naw,  yer  kin  never  learn  it,  it  takes  too 
long  ter  ketch  onto  de  spiel." 

He  put  the  knife  way  down  in  the  depths 
of  his  velvet  trousers,  and  held  his  hand 
over  it  to  make  sure  that  the  magician 
shouldn't  conjure  the  recovered  treasure 
away  again. 

The  magician  started  to  sing  "Dad  Doo- 
ley's  Daughter,"  and  Garwood,  Jr.  liked 
the  ditty  so  well  that  he  begged  him  to 
continue,  remarking,  "That's  awfully  funny; 
I  wish  I  could  learn  it." 

"I  '11  learn  yer,  it  goes  like  dis,"  and  he 
hummed:  — 

"  Dad  Dooley  had  a  daughter 
What  was  hot  in  love  wid  me, 
Till  a  sailor  laddy  caught  her, 
And  dey  runned  across  de  sea. 


156  The  Lucky  Number 

"  O  Dad  Dooley's  puttee  daughter, 
Oh,  yer  broke  me  heart  yer  did, 
When  yer  skipped  across  de  water 
Wid  de  jolly  sailor  kid." 

The  prince  proved  a  poor  scholar;  he  for 
got  the  first  line  as  soon  as  he  had  learned 
the  second,  and  the  pauper  gave  his  pupil  up 
in  disgust. 

"I  learned  dat  song  de  fust  crack;  I'm 
smarter  en  you." 

"No  you  ain't!  I  go  to  school,  and  I'm 
in  the  third  reader,  and  I'm  the  best  reader 
in  the  class. ' ' 

"I  do  n't  care  ef  yer  in  de  leventh  reader, 
I  'm  smarter  en  you." 

"No  you  're  not." 

"Yes  I  be." 

How  long  the  dispute  might  have  contin 
ued  in  this  strain  there  is  no  telling,  had  not 
the  aristocrat  missing  his  knife,  started  to  cry. 
The  Arab  returned  it  without  comment,  but 
with  an  air  that  was  deliciously  droll. 

"I  '11  whip  you  if  you  take  my  knife 
again,"  and  the  lace  ruffles  were  rolled  back 
from  the  wrist. 


A  Fair  Exchange  157 

"Come,  what's  de  use  ef  scrappin',  life's 
too  short;" — this  was  a  favorite  quotation 
used  at  The  Lucky  Number  before  and 
after  a  fight  as  a  kind  of  sedative,  which 
"The  Kid"  had  swallowed  without  knowing 
its  nature.  A  feeling  of  love  and  com 
panionship  for  the  little  stranger  who 
had  treated  him  kindly  stirred  the  lad  to  the 
depths  of  his  being,  and  he  put  his  arms 
around  the  stranger's  neck  affectionately. 

He  pushed  him  away,  "Your  hand's  all 
dirt,  and  you'll  dirty  my  waist,  and  I  put  it 
on  clean  this  morning." 

"Dat's  nuffin,  de  dirt  'ell  come  off.  Look 
at  me,"  and  it  dawned  upon  his  quick  intel 
ligence  that  a  great,  yawning  abyss  lay 
between  him  and  the  young  aristocrat. 

The  prince  was  just  as  quick  to  note  the 
change  of  expression  on  the  other's  face. 
"Do  n't  feel  bad,  I  've  got  some  old  ones  in 
the  linen  closet  and  I  '11  give  them  to  you;" 
after  a  pause,  "you  must  be  very  poor,  and 
my  mamma  says  I  must  be  good  to  the  poor. 
My  papa's  rich,  and  he  owns  a  large  factory 
with  big  chimneys;  it  's  lots  of  fun  to  watch 


158  The  Lucky  Number 

the  smoke.  He  buys  me  everything,  my 
papa. ' ' 

Now  "The  Kid"  understood  the  real 
significance  of  the  words  rich  and  poor; 
now,  too,  he  caught  a  glimmering,  vague  as 
it  was,  of  the  meaning  of  the  wild  harangues 
delivered  at  The  Lucky  Number  in  which 
ui  the  grinding  rich  were  anathematized  and 
the  suffering  poor  canonized. 

He  was  busy  uniting  the  scattered  sixes 
and  sevens  of  his  brain  into  thirteens  when 
the  boy  interrupted,  "I  'm  hungry,  I'm 
going  into  the  house  to  get  something  to 
eat,  come  ahead.  Does  your  mamma  allow 
you  to  eat  between  meals?" 

The  pauper  stood  lost  in  amazement. 
He  was  going  to  explain  that,  in  the  first 
place,  he  was  glad  to  pick  up  a  crumb  at 
any  time,  between,  or  at  the  ends;  and,  in 
the  second  place,  that  he  had  no  mamma  to 
regulate  the  time  when  he  might  stoop  to 
gather  the  crumbs;  but,  not  wishing  the 
other's  superiority  to  shine  forth  too  glar 
ingly,  he  answered  indifferently,  "Some 
times  she  do,  and  sometimes  she  do  n't." 


A  Fair  Exchange  159 

They  met  no  menial  at  the  palace  gate 
to  challenge  the  entrance  of  the  stranger, 
and  the  two  made  their  way  undisturbed  and 
without  difficulty  into  the  banquet  hall  of 
the  king. 

The  pauper  was  bewildered ;  he  had  never 
dreamt  that  anything  so  marvelous  or  en 
chanting  as  that  banquet  hall  existed  any 
where  in  the  world.  Had  he  read  Grimm 
or  the  Arabian  Nights,  he  might  in  some 
measure  have  been  prepared  for  sights  so 
wonderful,  but  he  had  never  heard  of  fairy 
wands,  or  Aladdin  lamps  or  invisible  and 
omnipotent  genii ;  and,  therefore,  not  know 
ing  how  to  account  for  such  dazzling  splen 
dor,  he  stood  astounded,  with  mouth  agape. 
He  was  as  busy  differentiating  his  impres 
sions  as  a  child  when  the  first  rays  of  a  dawn 
ing  intelligence  open  its  eyes  to  a  world  of 
variegated  color  and  multiple  form. 

"Gawd!"  he  murmured  under  his  breath, 
"she's  way  ahead  of  de  train,  and  way  past 
de  whistle.  What  slum  fer  a  crib-cracker!"* 

On  the  sideboard  was  a  large  chocolate 
*What  booty  for  a  safe  or  lock  breaker. 


160  The  Lucky  Number 

cake  which  Master  Garwood  reached  by  the 
aid  of  a  chair;  he  cut  a  large  slice  for  him 
self,  stepped  down,  and  very  generously 
invited  the  guest  to  take  his  turn. 

The  guest  first  nibbled  at  the  cake  to 
make  sure  it  contained  no  poison,  then 
smacking  his  lips  he  made  haste  to  cut  two 
slices,  one  of  which  he  slipped  into  his 
pocket. 

This  last  action  shocked  the  good  breed 
ing  of  the  prince.  "My  mamma  says  that 
ain't  polite,  to  take  two  pieces." 

The  guest  was  not  at  all  embarrassed,  he 
was  used  to  being  caught  in  predicaments 
like  that,  and  he  coolly  inquired  what 
"perlite"  might  mean? 

"It  means  —  well,  it  means  that  you 
mus'  n't  take  two  pieces  when  company's 
here,  or  when  they  ain't." 

"I  guess  yer  mudder  never  eat  no  free 
lunch,"  ventured  the  Arab,  his  mouth  so 
full  of  cake  that  he  could  scarcely  speak. 

"What's  that?" 

"Free  lunch?  Dat  's  grub  what's  thrung 
in  wid  de  drinks." 


A  Fair  Exchange  161 

The  son  thought  his  mother  had  never 
eaten  of  such  food. 

In  the  corner  of  the  room  on  a  mahogany 
table  was  a  Chinese  ivory  carving,  one  of 
the  first  things  that  attracted  the  visitor's 
attention. 

"What's  dat  Ching-Chang  good  fer?"  he 
asked,  pointing  to  the  ivory. 

"Oh,  that?  That  's  an  ornament;  you 
push  its  head,  and  it  goes  on  shaking  by 
itself  —  so." 

The  guest  had  never  seen  anything  that 
struck  his  fancy  more  forcibly,  and  when  the 
host  was  looking  elsewhere  he  slipped  it 
under  his  coat.  But  somehow  he  felt  uncom 
fortable,  he  was  taking  unfair  advantage 
of  some  one  who  had  treated  him  kindly, 
and  recognizing  for  the  first  time  in  his  life 
that  there  was  a  line  of  demarcation  between 
meum  and  tuum,  he  waited  his  opportunity 
and  put  the  carving  back.  It  had  scarcely 
touched  the  table  before  the  boy's  mother 
made  her  appearance. 

"Harvey,  what  are  you  doing  with  that 
cake?  You  know  that  you  should  n't  touch 


1 62  The  Lucky  Number 

it.  I  've  been  looking  all  over  the  house  for 
you,  where  have  you  been?  Goodness  me! 
Where  did  that  child  come  from?  Why  did 
you  bring  him  into  the  house?  I  shall  never 
let  you  go  out  of  the  house  again  without 
the  nurse." 

"The  Kid"  pressed  close  to  the  wall, 
wishing  with  all  his  heart  and  soul  that  he 
could  press  clean  through  it  into  the  street. 

"He  's a  fine  boy,"  said  Harvey  in  honest 
surprise,  "he  can  take  things  out  of  your 
pocket,  and  you  can't  see  him  do  it;  and  he 
can  sing  funny  songs  and  play  drunk  and 
spit  way  across  the  room. 

The  queen  paid  no  attention  to  the  appeal 
of  the  little  prince  for  his  playmate,  the 
pauper:  "If  you  don't  go  at  once,  little 
boy,  I  must  send  you  away." 

"Please,  mum,"  he  interposed,  "I  did  n't 
mean  no  harm ;  the  kid  tole  me  as  you  was 
good  to  de  poor,  and  he  tole  me  ter  come 
in  wid  him.  But  you  need  n't  fly  de  peeler, 
I  '11  wing." 

"How  glad  I  am  that  my  dear  child 
isn't  a  little  vagabond  like  that,"  thought 


A  Fair  Exchange  163 

the  mother,  a  few  seconds  after  the  boy  had 
gone. 

"Just  de  same,"  reflected  "The  Kid," 
on  his  way  homeward,  "I  wish  dat  I  had 
swiped  de  Ching-Chang  wid  de  swingin' 
nut." 

PART  III. 

HEREDITY A    POSSIBILITY. 

"There  's  a  boy  in  the  reception  room, that 
wants  to  see  you.  He  says  he  has  a  very 
important  message.  Shall  I  admit  him?" 

"A  boy  with  an  important  message  for 
me,  you  say?  Who  is  the  boy,  Mr.  Run 
nels?" 

From  the  slow,  grave  manner  in  which  he 
spoke  these  few  unimportant  words  you 
would  have  known  that  Mr.  Garwood,  Sr., 
a  stern,  yet  withal  benevolent  appearing 
man  of  middle  age,  was  precise  and  method 
ical  in  everything  he  did,  whether  the  mat 
ter  in  hand  involved  pennies  or  thousands. 

"I  have  n't  the  least  idea,  sir,"  answered 
the  secretary,  "but  he  looks  like  a  very 
poor  boy," 


164  The  Lucky  Number 

"I  can't  see  him;  I  am  very  much  pressed 
for  time;"  and  he  turned  to  read  the  corre 
spondence  that  lay  in  neat,  square  piles  on 
his  desk. 

"You  might  find  out  what  he  wants,"  he 
said  as  Mr.  Runnels  left  the  room. 

"The  boy  will  not  go  away,  Mr.  Gar- 
wood,  nor  will  he  tell  me  what  he  wants. 
He  says  the  message  is  a  matter  of  life  and 
death,  and  he  will  deliver  it  only  to  you," 
said  the  secretary  on  returning. 

"A  matter  of  life  and  death,"  and  the 
head  of  the  great  house  of  Garwood  &  Co. 
repeated  the  words  in  his  characteristic, 
weighty  manner.  "Well,  I  presume  it  might 
be  wise  to  see  this  important  messenger 
from  the  fates."  His  curiosity  was  aroused, 
and  he  had  calculated  while  speaking  to  Run 
nels  that  he  could  spare  three  minutes. 

The  door  opened  again,  and  a  small  boy, 
hat  in  hand,  stepped  across  the  Turkish  rugs, 
and  up  to  the  millionaire's  desk,  as  if  he  had 
crossed  Turkish  rugs  every  day  of  his  life  to 
interview  millionaires  in  their  private  offices. 

Mr.  Garwood,   toying  with  his  whiskers, 


A  Fair  Exchange  165 

eyed  the  boy  from  head  to  foot  through  his 
glasses.  A  few  glances  told  him  that  the 
boy  was  fourteen  or  fifteen  years  of  age, 
that  he  was  poor  to  the  extreme  of 
want,  and  that  he  was  a  neat  boy;  for  his 
clothes,  worn  as  they  were,  looked  as  if  ex 
cessive  brushing  and  cleaning  had  worn  the 
patches  into  them.  He  was  an  honest  boy, 
for  he  looked  one  straight  in  the  face  with 
his  large  brown  eyes,  and  did  not  flinch; 
he  was  an  intelligent  boy,  too,  for  those 
eyes  were  mirrors  of  eagerness  and  vivacity. 

The  subject  of  this  inspection  interrupted 
any  further  conclusions  with,  "Are  you  Mr. 
Garwood  ? ' ' 

He  nodded  affirmatively,  saying,  "So  you 
are  the  boy  who  has  an  important  message 
for  me,  a  message  of  life  or  death,  I  be 
lieve?  '' 

"Yes,"  answered  the  lad,  "so  I  has.  I 
needs  a  job  and  I  knows  yer  kin  give  me 
one."  His  voice  and  manner  of  speaking 
were  so  like  Garwood  Sr. 's  that  the  latter 
might  have  imagined  that  he  was  being 
mocked.  Had  he  not  been  prepossessed 


1 66  The  Lucky  Number 

in  the  boy's  favor  and  amused  by  his  man 
ner,  he  would  have  ended  the  interview 
then  and  there. 

"So  that  is  your  message  of  life  and 
death,  is  it?"  Mr.  Garwood  inquired,  his 
stern  features  relaxing  into  a  good-natured 
smile. 

"It  is  fer  me,  sir,  I  kin  tell  yer;  it's  work 
'er  starve  with  me." 

"H'm,  and  what  can  you  do,  if  I  should 
offer  you  work?" 

"Everything,"  was  the  ready  response. 

The  plutocrat  crossed  his  hands  behind 
his  head  and  lolled  back  in  his  revolving 
chair;  he  was  going  to  allow  himself  a  little 
recreation  at  the  boy's  expense. 

"It  has  been  my  experience  that  those 
who  boldly  claim  they  can  do  everything, 
in  reality  can  do  nothing." 

"I  spoke  too  quick,  sir.  I  mean  ter  say, 
I  'm  willin'  fer  to  do  anything." 

"You  should  never  speak  too  quickly, 
boy." 

"Thank  you,  sir." 

At  the  boy's  "I  thank  you,"  the  pluto- 


A  Fair  Exchange  167 

crat's  eye-glasses  almost  jumped  away  with 
a  jerk  from  the  silk  cord  to  which  they  were 
attached.  He  thought  he  detected  a  ring  of 
sarcasm  in  the  voice,  but  the  speaker's  face 
remained  grave  as  a  deacon's. 

"Well,  and  what  value  do  you  place  upon 
your  indispensable  services?" 

"My  in-dis-pen-sa-ble  services  ought  ter 
be  worth  four  dollars  a  week,"  piped  the 
urchin. 

"Four  dollars?  When  I  started  to  work 
here  at  your  age,  they  paid  me  but  three, 
if  I  remember  correctly. ' ' 

"P'rhaps  yer  wasn't  worth  no  more," 
observed  the  applicant  very  quietly,  as  if 
quite  sure  of  the  truth  of  his  remark. 

The  merchant's  brows  contracted  into  a 
scowl,  then  he  burst  out  laughing  and 
laughed  until  his  sides  ached.  The  boy 
laughed,  too;  he  saw  the  humor  of  the  situ 
ation  and  enjoyed  it  keenly.  The  former 
checked  himself  suddenly.  "I  have  no  more 
time  to  spend  now.  Return  at  three  o'clock; 
I  shall  have  more  leisure  then,  and  we  shall 
see  what  can  be  done  for  you." 


1 68  The  Lucky  Number 

At  three  o'clock  to  the  minute  the  boy 
put  in  his  appearance. 

' '  I  am  glad  you  're  so  punctual,  "remarked 
Mr.  Garwood,  "I  've  been  expecting  you." 

The  vision  of  this  naive,  cheerful  waif, 
had  the  same  invigorating  effect  on  the 
overworked  man  of  millions  that  a  cool 
breeze  wafted  from  the  lake  has  upon  the 
burning  streets  of  the  city. 

"Yer  know,"  began  the  boy,  "I  think 
yer  an  awful  nice  sort  of  a  man." 

"And  what  has  given  you  that  opinion 
of  me?"  Mr.  Garwood  was  prepared  for 
anything  now. 

"Well,  Mrs.  Steen  tole  me  that  a  man 
what  laughs  right  out  from  his  inside  that 
a  way  till  his  shoulders  shake  is  allus  honest, 
good-natered  en  kind-hearted,  en  what  Mrs. 
Steen  says  yer  kin  bank  on  every  time." 

"Mrs.  Steen,  and  who  may  that  good 
lady  be?" 

"She  's  the  good  woman  what  brung  me 
up  and  saved  my  soul." 

"Did  n't  you  have  a  mother  to  do  that 
for  you?" 


A  Fair  Exchange  169 

"Ef  I  had  a  mudder,  she  turned  me  out 
ter  shift  fer  myself  'fore  I  had  a  chance  ter 
know  how  handsome  she  was." 

"You  must  have  had  a  very  hard  struggle 
of  it,  my  lad."  This  last  was  said  sympa 
thetically  in  a  manner  calculated  to  draw 
the  boy  out.  He  found  himself  more  and 
more  interested  in  this  urchin  who  spoke  to 
him  with  the  nonchalance  of  a  superior. 

"Yer  bet,  I  had  a  hard  time  of  it.  I  most 
starved  en  froze  ter  death.  Dern,  if  I  know 
how  I  stood  it  long  enuf  fer  Mike  ter  find 
me.  There  must  be  iron  in  me  some'eres, " 
he  paused  to  reflect.  Then,  thinking  that 
he  was  going  to  embark  on  a  long  story,  he 
invited  himself  to  be  seated  in  the  chair 
that  stood  in  the  corner  at  the  right  of  the 
merchant's  desk. 

"I  wish  my  boy  had  a  little  of  this 
urchin's  iron  in  his  constitution,  and  less  soft 
lead,"  thought  Mr.  Garwood,  Sr. 

"As  I  was  saying,"  he  went  on  with  per 
fect  equanimity,  "I  had  tough  times  till  I 
struck  Mike,  Mike's  the  bartender  of  The 
Lucky  Number.  Ever  heard  of  The  Lucky 


170  The  Lucky  Number 

Number?  No?  It's  a  joint  where  the  hobos 
hangs  out,  and  the  toughs.  Tough,  gee 
whiz!  those  fellers  is  tough.  They  tried 
to  make  me  tough  es  they  was,  en'  they  come 
near  doin'  it.  They  learned  me  ter  swear, 
en  smoke,  en  steal;  none  of  'em  learned  me 
no  good,  I  kin  tell  yer. 

"Mike  took  a  shine  ter  me;  he  liked  me 
'cause  I  was  smart  en  could  swear  back,  en 
sass  quicker  'en  he  could.  He  let  me  sleep 
there  and  onct  in  a  while,  just  enuf  to  keep  me 
livin',  he  fed  me  on  free  lunch.  He  liked 
me  there,  'cause  I  amoosed  the  hobos  by 
singin',  drinkin',  en  play  in'  all  around 
tough  kid.  I  was  tough,  too,  but  I  ain't 
proud  of  it  now,  dough  I  was  den. 

"En'  I  went  on  gettin'  tougher  en 
tougher  till  I  runned  into  Mudder  Steen; 
Mudder  Steen  is  the  woman  what  keeps  the 
dressmakin'  shop  four  blocks  this  side  of  The 
Lucky  Number.  I  runned  an  errand  fer  her, 
after  her  girl  went  out  ter  take  a  dress,  and 
could  n't  find  the  place  of  the  woman  what 
ordered  it.  I  found  it  all  right.  After 
that  she  let  me  run  all  over  the  city  fer  her; 


A  Fair  Exchange  171 

then  she  let  me  sleep  in  her  shop,  en  give 
me  my  meals  fer  runnin'  errands  en  keepin' 
the  place  clean. 

''She  was  a  Dutch  woman,  Mudder 
Steen,  en  stuck  on  goin'  ter  church;  she 
made  me  go  'long  ter  church  with  her  on 
Sundays,  en  go  ter  Sunday  school.  I 
did  n't  like  it  much  at  first  en  runned  away, 
but  she  scared  the  life  out  of  me  tellin' 
about  hell  fire,  en  burnin'.  She  used  ter 
cry  'cause  I  was  so  bad,  en  pray  fer  me,  en 
tell  me  how  it  hurt  her  ter  see  me  that 
a  way.  It  hurt  me,  too,  ter  see  the  old 
woman  cryin'  en  carryin'  on,  en  I  made 
up  my  mind  all  ef  a  sudden,  en  I  quit  bein' 
tough  en  bad  from  that  day  on.  She  used 
ter  read  ter  me  nights,  en  she  learned  me 
ter  read,  en  write,  en  spell,  en  'rithmetic. 
She  knowed  a  heap,  Mudder  Steen  did, 
even  if  her  talk  was  Dutchy.  One  Christ 
mas,  'cause  I  learned  ter  read  so  fast,  she 
give  me  two  books,  Robinson  Crusoe  and 
'Rabian  Nights.  I  liked  'Rabian  Nights 
best ;  'specially  'bout  the  nigger  that  brought 
Aladdin  the  lamp  and  popped  out  of  the 


172  The  Lucky  Number 

ground  whenever  he  rubbed  it.  It's  a  great 
story,  yer  ought  ter  read  it." 

"I've  read  it,"  said  the  plutocrat  seri 
ously. 

"And  Friday  and  the  — " 

"I'm  afraid  you  will  have  to  draw  your 
story  of  your  life  to  a  close,  for  I  shall — " 

"By  the  way,"  the  boy  with  a  history  in 
terrupted  excitedly,  "how's  your  son,  Har 
vey  R.  Garwood,  Jr.  ?  I  meant  ter  ask  en  I 
forgot." 

"How  in  the  wide  world  did  you  ever 
make  the  acquaintance  of  my  son!"  ejacu 
lated  Garwood  Sr. 

"When  I  was  only  a  kid,  six  years  ago,  I 
was  going  en  errand  fer  Mike,  en  I  lost  my 
way,  en  I  met  him.  We  played  together  a 
long  time,  en  talked,  en  he  told  me  his  pa 
was  rich,  en  had  a  big  factory,  with  large 
chimneys.  He  took  me  in  his  house,  too, 
en  we  was  havin'  a  good  time  till  the  old 
woman  chased  me  out." 

"I  have  a  dim  recollection  that  my  wife 
told  me  something  of  the  kind  some  years 
ago." 


A  Fair  Exchange  173 

"I  thought  you'd  remember  if  you  heard 
it.  Mudder  Steen,  when  I  tole  her  about 
it,  used  ter  laugh,  en  she  made  me  remem 
ber  all  about  it,  en  keep  tellin'  her  often 
so  as  not  ter  ferget.  'Ef  ever  anything 
happens  ter  me,'  she  says,  'you  go  ter  see 
that  Mr.  Garwood  en  tell  him  jest  what  yer 
tellin'  me,  en  he  '11  laugh  en  give  yer  the 
job.'  Mudder  Steen  died  last  week,  en 
the  shop's  gone,  so  I  come." 

"And  you  shall  have  the  job,  too,  my 
lad,  even  if  I  prove  your  good  Mother 
Steen  wrong  by  not  laughing.  I  shall  have 
to  get  along  with  two  office  boys  instead 
of  one,  I  suppose." 

"I  don't  want  ter  be  no  office  boy,  put 
me  in  the  factory,  I  want  ter  learn  a  trade. 

"I  like  your  spirit,  and  in  the  factory  you 
shall  go,  if  the  works  have  to  be  turned  up 
side  down  to  put  you  there." 

When  William  Steen,  for  such  was  his 
name  now,  stepped  down  the  long  hallway 
leading  to  the  factory,  he  said  to  the  foreman 
who  was  leading  him  thither,  "I  'm  going 
ter  have  yer  job  in  ten  years,  watch  out," 


174  The  Lucky  Number 

The  foreman  patted  him  on  the  head  and 
laughed,  but  the  very  boldness  of  the  re 
mark  captured  his  heart,  and  he  resolved  on 
the  spot  to  do  all  in  his  power  to  advance 
the  lad,  even  if  he  endangered  his  own  po 
sition.  And  when  he  related  this  remark 
of  the  'prentice  to  the  factory  hands  they 
laughed  still  louder,  if  that  were  possible,  but 
they  admired  the  boy  none  the  less  for  the 
courage  he  displayed  in  "sassin'  the  boss." 

For  a  long  time  the  remark  passed  current 
in  the  factory  as  a  joke,  and  when  they 
twitted  him  about  it  good-naturedly,  as 
often  happened,  Will  compressed  his  lips 
tightly  and  answered  only,  "You'll  see." 
And  they  did  see. 

"Watch  out,"  the  men  would  say  to  the 
foreman  as  the  'prentice  passed  on  from 
stage  to  stage,  from  casting  to  turning,  and 
from  turning  to  fitting  and  burnishing,  with 
a  rapidity  that  astonished  everybody. 
"Watch  out,  or  the  kid,  afore  you  know  it, 
will  push  you  out." 

Garwood  Sr.,  who  was  watching  the  ad 
vance  of  his  prottgt  with  an  interest  akin  to 


A  Fair  Exchange  175 

pride,  never  had  cause  to  regret  the  day  that 
he  had  given  Will  Steen  a  start  in  life.  "I 
shall  be  satisfied,"  he  said  to  his  wife  when 
Harvey  left  home  for  college,  "if  our  son, 
with  every  advantage  in  his  favor,  succeeds 
as  well  at  college  as  this  Arab,  whom  I  took 
from  the  streets,  is  succeeding  in  my  fac 
tory." 

The  clink-clank  of  innumerable  hammers 
on  the  anvils,  the  whistling  of  lathes,  the 
whirl  of  great  wheels,  the  activity  and  move 
ment  of  the  factory — all  was  music  to  Will's 
ear.  His  fondest  dream  anticipated  the  day 
when  his  command  should  send  every  man, 
like  a  soldier  well  drilled,  to  his  post,  and 
make  the  minutest  part  of  the  complicated 
machinery  pulsate  with  the  joy  that  comes 
from  doing,  creating. 

In  his  heart  was  implanted  a  yearning  for 
power,  an  eagerness  to  lead,  to  be  at  the 
head,  and  the  higher  he  advanced  in  the 
factory  the  greater  did  this  desire  become. 
Instinctively,  he  felt  that  power  comes  from 
knowledge;  and  when  the  day's  work  was 
done  he  went  to  night-school,  that  he  might 


ij6  The  Lucky  Number 

gain  the  knowledge,  which,  by-and-by,  he 
hoped,  was  to  transform  itself  into  power. 
His  advance  there  was  equally  remarkable; 
he  mastered  books  as  readily  as  he  made 
the  iron,  hot  from  the  forge,  take  what 
shape  he  willed. 

He  was  born  to  rule,  and  gifted  as  he  was 
with  foresight,  policy  and  ability,  he  made 
things  serve  as  a  spring-board  to  bound  him 
upward. 

Before  the  expiration  of  ten  years  the 
foreman  left  for  a  more  advantageous  posi 
tion,  and  Will  Steen  stepped  into  the  place ; 
his  prophecy  had  been  verified.  He  wasted 
no  time  resting  on  his  oars ;  higher  up  the 
stream  there  were  stations  waiting  for  brain 
and  executive  ability,  and  it  tantalized  him 
to  see  the  waters  rush  on  while  his  boat 
stood  still. 

Clad  in  his  overalls,  he  walked  into  the 
president's  office  one  morning.  "Mr.  Gar- 
wood,"  said  he,  "I  think  that  I  can  be  of 
more  service  to  you  in  the  office  than  in  the 
factory.  Why  not  put  me  there  to  figure  on 
your  contracts?" 


A  Fair  Exchange  177 

The  president  was  somewhat  skeptical, 
but  he  consented  to  give  him  a  trial.  Will 
Steen  never  asked  for  more  than  a  trial;  it 
was  the  start  that  always  gave  him  the  race. 

The  same  persistent,  tireless  energy  that 
he  had  put  forth  in  factory  and  school 
won  him  the  most  responsible  position  in 
the  office.  He  was  fast  nearing  the  end  of 
the  stream ;  he  could  catch  the  glimmer  of 
the  waters  at  the  source,  and  he  tugged  at 
his  oars  with  a  violence  which  strained  his 
muscles,  that  he  might  reach  the  goal  before 
the  current  could  carry  him  an  inch  down 
ward. 

In  another  five  years  he  was  Garwood 
Sr. 's  right  hand  man  with  a  small  interest  in 
the  house  of  Garwood  &  Co.  "I  expected 
it,"  was  all  he  said  when  the  plutocrat  called 
him  to  occupy  a  desk  in  his  private  office. 

More  than  once  did  the  millionaire  repeat 
the  wish  that  his  own  son  might  have  some 
of  Will  Steen's  iron  in  his  flabby  constitu 
tion,  for  Harvey  R.  Garwood  Jr. 's  vacilla 
ting  will  and  idle  life  made  the  father  despair 
for  his  future. 


178  The  Lucky  Number 

At  nineteen  he  was  expelled  from  his 
freshman  year  for  drunkenness,  gambling, 
and  a  neglect  of  his  studies. 

H  is  parents  were  inconsolable.  While  their 
son's  ability  had  never  led  them  to  believe 
that  his  career  would  be  brilliant,  they  had 
hoped  that  his  life  might  be  at  least  honor 
able  and  free  from  all  taint  of  dissipation. 
As  a  matter  of  course,  there  were  the 
the  tears  of  a  penitent  prodigal,  the  forgive 
ness  of  a  trusting,  confident  mother,  and  of 
a  firmer  and  more  unrelenting  father. 

For  a  time  his  repentance  seemed  sincere, 
and  when  he  started  to  work  at  his  father's 
office  he  gave  every  promise  of  retrieving 
his  lost  reputation ;  but  the  promise  proved 
a  lie,  for  there  followed  a  second  period  of 
reckless  dissipation  and  evil  associates.  A 
second  time  the  mother  pleaded,  the  son 
promised,  and  the  father  forgave. 

His  third  defection  was  more  serious; 
Garwood  Jr.,  for  the  purpose  of  meeting  a 
debt  contracted  over  the  gambling  table, 
forged  Garwood  Sr. 's  name  to  a  note.  This 
time  the  mother  pleaded  and  the  son  prom- 


A  Fair  Exchange  179 

ised  in  vain,  the  father  remained  inexorable  ; 
he  disowned  his  son  and  forbade  that  Har 
vey's  name  ever  be  mentioned  in  his  pres 
ence. 

Thus  every  time  that  Will  Steen  climbed 
up  a  round  on  the  ladder  of  life,  Harvey 
R.  Garwood,  Jr.  slipped  down  two. 

The  erect  tall  frame  of  Garwood  Sr.  was 
slowly  bending  under  the  heavy  burden  of 
old  age;  his  vitality  was  fast  slipping  from 
between  his  fingers,  and  he  found  Will's 
assistance  and  advice  more  and  more  neces 
sary.  A  magnetic  force  —  the  irresistible 
force  that  draws  like  to  like — drew  Will  to 
him  closer  and  closer.  The  time  came  when 
he  called  Will  and  said,  "You  have  been  a 
son  to  me  in  all  but  name;  you  have  taken 
a  son's  place  in  my  office,  come,  take  it  in 
my  home.  My  wife  sent  you  away  from 
there  years  ago  as  a  vagabond ;  in  her 
name,  as  well  as  in  mine,  I  ask  you  to  re 
turn  as  my  son." 

Not  long  after  this  epoch  in  his  career 
Will  entered  the  office  with  a  face  that 
clearly  betokened  a  heavy  heart.  The  older 


180  The  Lucky  Number 

man  with  his  quickness  of  perception  noticed 
it  instantly. 

"Something  has  gone  wrong,  my  boy, 
speak  out.  Is  it  something  concerning  Har 
vey?  I  am  always  expecting  it.  Have  no 
secret  from  me;  his  past  conduct  has  pre 
pared  me  for  the  worst. ' ' 

"I  must  say  it  sometime,"  replied  Will, 
"and  the  sooner  I  say  it,  the  sooner  the 
thing  is  done;  if  I  do  n't  break  the  news  to 
you  now,  some  one  else  will  do  it  later  and 
more  abruptly.  It  is  something  terrible." 

The  old  man  nodded,  looking  the  quintes 
sence  of  will  and  self-control  as  he  sat  up 
right  in  his  chair,  holding  its  arms  with  his 
firm  powerful  hands. 

"I  read  in  this  afternoon's  paper  that 
your  son  Harvey  was  shot  last  night  at  The 
Lucky  Number!  " 


Aaron  Pivansky's  Picture 

PART  I. 

THE  PICTURE  IS   PAINTED. 

IT  was  long  past  midnight  when  the  idea 
that  he  had  left  his  safe  unlocked 
popped  into  the  restless  mind  of  Solomon 
Pivansky.  Suspicions  just  as  groundless  had 
already  wasted  two  of  sleep's  priceless 
hours,  and  being  loathe  to  leave  his  warm 
bed  he  tried  to  argue  this  one  to  the  same 
death  that  he  had  argued  its  fellows.  But 
finding  himself  unable  to  effect  a  compromise 
between  sleep  and  the  idea,  he  arose  grum- 
blingly  and  made  his  way  down  the  stairs 
which  connected  the  sleeping  apartment  with 
the  pawn-shop. 

You  can  imagine  his  astonishment  at  find 
ing  the  lamp  burning  at  full  height  in  the 
rear  room  of  the  pawn-shop ;  but  you  cannot 
181 


1 82  The  Lucky  Number 

imagine  his  astonishment  at  finding  his  son 
Aaron  leisurely  giving  the  finishing  touches 
to  a  large  canvas  stretched  across  an  artist's 
easel.  Astonishment  is  not  the  word ;  Solo 
mon  was  dumbfounded,  so  dumbfounded 
that  his  vocabulary,  giving  his  tongue  the 
slip,  left  him  without  the  means  of  express 
ing  his  surprise  in  a  full  half-dozen  of  those 
racy  epithets  in  which  Yiddish  abounds. 
The  sight  of  all  this  artist's  paraphernalia 
formed  an  instantaneous  association  in 
Solomon's  mind  with  the  figure  of  the  pen 
niless  artist  Brosseau,  who  had  been  obliged 
to  pawn  "the  stuff"  in  order  to  eke  out 
another  day's  miserable  existence.  Solo 
mon  did  not  intend  that  his  son's  soul 
should  thrive  at  the  expense  of  his  body, 
and  he  gave  the  easel  a  kick  that  sent  the 
canvas  on  the  floor  with  a  bang,  and  his 
hand  struck  out  simultaneously  for  Aaron's 
face.  The  blow  never  reached  home,  how 
ever,  for  the  boy  caught  his  father's  out 
stretched  hand  by  the  wrist  and  held  it 
firmly.  This  was  the  first  time  in  his  life 
that  any  of  the  Pivanskys  had  dared  to  dis- 


Aaron  Pivansky's  Picture          183 

pute  his  parental  authority,  and  Solomon's 
blood  rose  to  the  boiling  point. 

His  face  was  mean  enough  ordinarily, 
literally,  as  well  as  figuratively,  without  a 
redeeming  feature, — a  harsh,  hard,  cunning, 
repulsive  face,  a  face  that  made  it  useless 
for  the  owner  to  deny  sordidness  and  ava 
rice  and  tyranny,  a  face  that  bore  the 
marks  and  showed  the  results  of  thirty  years 
of  Russian  persecution,  and  a  face  that 
bespoke  a  sullen  waiting  for  the  hour 
of  vengeance.  Mean  enough  ordinarily, 
I  said,  but  you  should  have  seen  it  then, 
when  anger  accentuated  its  brutal  inhuman 
ity. 

A  wrench,  and  he  freed  his  arm  from 
Aaron's  grasp.  "  I  '11  show  you,"  he  mut 
tered,  "before  the  night's  over  who  's  master 
here.  So  this  is  the  way  you  waste  my 
oil  and  my  time,  is  it?  I  never  can  get 
any  work  out  of  you.  No  wonder  you 
fall  asleep  over  your  work,  and  leave  the 
stock  and  the  books  to  keep  themselves. 
I  '11  show  you !  Is  it  for  this  that  I  let 
you  go  two  years  to  school,  and  waste 


184  The  Lucky  Number 

my  hard-earned  money,  you  good-for-noth- 
ing!" 

At  every  word  of  the  diatribe  Solomon's 
face  grew  darker,  that  part  at  least,  which 
was  not  covered  by  his  black,  frowzy  beard. 
Aaron  knew  what  to  expect  and  he  waited 
calmly,  standing  squarely  in  front  of  his  can 
vas  that  had  fallen  back-foremost,  resolved 
whatever  befell  him  to  protect  it  from  in 
jury. 

Pivansky,  the  elder,  foresaw  his  intention. 
"I'll  smash  that  thing  to  pieces  when  I  get 
through  with  you." 

"No,  you'll  not,"  retorted  Aaron,  assum 
ing  an  offensive  position. 

Had  Solomon  seen  a  lamb  changed  to  a 
lion  before  his  eyes,  the  miracle  would  not 
have  astounded  him  so  much  as  this  sudden 
change  from  fearful  obedience  to  defiant 
disobedience  on  the  part  of  his  Aaron,  usu 
ally  as  meek  as  Moses,  and  he  stood  dum- 
founded  again. 

War  had  been  declared,  and  Aaron  meant 
to  push  things  to  an  issue,  then  and  there. 
' '  I  have  spent  a  year  on  that  picture ;  I  have 


Aaron  Pivansky's  Picture          185 

toiled  nights  on  it  after  the  day's  hard  labor, 
while  you  and  other  men  slept ;  if  you  ruin 
it  you  might  as  well  kill  me  and  be  done 
with  it ;  for  I  can  never  gather  the  courage 
to  attempt  a  work  like  that  again,  and  I 
would  rather  die  than  waste  my  life  in  this 
nasty  pawn-shop.  I  'm  sick  of  it,  and  I  'm 
above  it." 

"Above  it,  are  you?"  shouted  Solomon — 
"above  it?  Well,  I'll  bring  your  stiff  neck 
down  to  it,  quick  enough." 

It  would  have  gone  hard  with  the  young 
artist  had  not  Mrs.  Pivansky  (a  short,  fat 
woman,  with  nothing  to  distinguish  her 
from  the  other  thousand  and  one  women  of 
the  Ghetto)  made  her  appearance  at  this 
juncture  of  affairs  and  delayed  the  unequal 
combat.  She  had  been  awakened  by  the 
noise,  and,  astonished  not  to  find  her  hus 
band  at  her  side,  had  rushed  down  stairs  to 
find  out  the  cause  of  the  disturbance. 

"A  nice  son  you  've  raised,"  said  her  hus 
band,  turning  towards  her;  "he  's  a  gonef* ; 
he  stole  this  stuff  from  the  shop,  and  he's 
*A  thief. 


1 86  The  Lucky  Number 

stealing  my  time  to  paint  his  trashy 
pictures." 

She  stood  in  open-mouthed  stupidity, 
trying  to  make  head  and  tail  out  of  this 
unexpected  jumble. 

"If  he  paid  attention  to  the  business  he 
might  amount  to  something.  Let  him  buy 
something  with  his  pictures. ' '  He  thundered 
this  last  observation  at  his  wife,  as  if  she 
were  to  blame  for  her  son's  lack  of  commer 
cial  astuteness. 

"Yes,"  she  answered  stupidly,  "let  him 
buy  something  with  his  pictures." 

Aaron  knew  the  weakness  of  his  parents, 
and  with  true  Jewish  perspicacity  he  bent 
the  trend  of  the  argument  to  his  own  advan 
tage.  "Buy  something  with  that  picture! 
I  can  sell  it  for  more  than  your  pawn-shop 
is  worth.  It  will  make  me  rich  and  famous — 
it's  a  work  of  art.  An  artist  with  years  of 
training  and  every  opportunity  of  study 
would  be  proud  to  have  painted  it."  His 
tone  was  at  once  persuasive  and  conciliatory. 
' '  It  will  make  us  rich,  that  picture, ' '  he  spoke 
as  one  who  speaks  from  one's  soul-belief. 


Aaron  Pivansky's  Picture          187 

Money !  The  word  acted  like  the  touch 
of  a  talisman,  it  made  the  whole  affair  ap 
pear  different  in  Solomon's  eyes;  he 
had  never  thought  of  the  possibility  of  con 
verting  paint  to  gold.  He  reflected  for 
a  second  or  two,  trying  to  calculate  what  the 
picture  might  be  worth.  "Let's  see  the 
thing,"  he  snapped. 

Proudly  Aaron  lifted  the  picture  from  the 
floor,  and  held  it  up  to  the  light.  For  over 
a  year  he  had  yearned  for  an  opportunity 
to  show  his  father  what  he  had  done,  but 
he  had  always  been  restrained  by  the  fear 
that  his  effort  would  displease  him,  and  that 
his  displeasure  would  assume  some  such  vio 
lent  semblance  as  it  had  worn  on  this  night. 

Wonderful  and  strange  difference  between 
the  father  and  son.  I  might  contrast  their 
characters  and  their  appearances  for  pages 
and  pages,  and  then  have  left  untouched 
those  finer  shades  and  subtler  shadows  which 
are  not  seen  at  the  first,  nor  yet  at  the  sec 
ond  or  third  glance. 

Aaron  had  the  countenance  of  a  man 
who  aspires;  a  soulful,  yearning  face,  one 


1 88  The  Lucky  Number 

that  would  willingly  gaze  forever  on  the 
stars  above,  but  which  circumstance  forces 
to  look  on  the  earth  below.  The  long  bat 
tle  fought  between  pawn-shop  and  art- 
studio  for  the  possession  of  Aaron's  soul 
had  moulded  every  line  of  its  contour;  and 
the  dumb  appeal  of  the  heart,  which  help 
lessly  watched  the  superior  brutal  force  of 
the  pawn-shop  strive  to  dominate  the  spirit 
ual  force  of  the  art-studio,  had  somehow 
found  expression  in  the  beseeching  glances 
of  two  dark  eyes,  made  pathetic  by  the 
constant  reflection  of  such  intense  heart- 
suffering.  The  battle  was  still  waging  per 
sistently,  and  needed  but  the  force  of  shift 
ing  circumstances  to  throw  its  balance  of 
power  one  way  or  the  other  and  decide  the 
victory. 

Solomon's  mortification  at  his  son's  per 
formance  rapidly  gave  way  to  an  emotion 
of  pleasure  at  the  first  glance  at  the  picture, 
and  mauger  his  best  efforts  to  appear  indif 
ferent,  he  could  not  hide  his  interest  and 
admiration.  And  his  wife  Rachel,  usually 
impassive  and  indifferent,  the  impassiveness 


Aaron  Pivansky's  Picture          189 

and  indifference  of  sheer  stupidity,  burst 
forth  into  exclamations  of  surprise  and  won 
der  as  she  looked  from  the  artist  to  the 
picture,  and  from  the  picture  to  the  artist, 
as  if  trying  to  unfathom  the  mystery  of 
their  correlation. 

Aaron's  anger  at  his  father's  harshness 
was  carried  away  by  an  overwhelming  tidal 
wave  of  the  pride  and  joy  of  first  success; 
and  after  the  fashion  of  all  tyros  in  art,  he 
was  arguing  that  since  his  picture  had  made 
an  impression  on  the  flinty  heart  of  the 
father,  and  the  obtuse  sensibilities  of  the 
mother,  it  could  not  fail  to  impress  the 
world  at  large,  and  bring  him  in  one  bound 
to  fame  and  fortune. 

Small  wonder  that  the  boy's  masterpiece 
interested  those  two,  since  he  had  taken 
their  most  familiar  religious  rite,  surrounded 
it  with  the  unfamiliar,  and  by  the  magic 
of  his  art  made  visible  an  inherent  sublimity 
and  pathos  they  had  never  known  it  to  pos 
sess.  The  familiar  interested ;  the  unfamil 
iar,  child  of  the  painter's  fancy,  won  their 
admiration  and  awakened  their  awe. 


190  The  Lucky  Number 

The  picture  represented  the  observance 
of  Yom  Kippur  on  the  battlefield  of  Metz 
by  the  Jewish  section  of  the  German  army. 
The  center  of  the  canvas  was  occupied  by 
a  chasan,*  who  loomed  forth  in  majestic  pro 
portions  as  he  rested  on  the  altar  and  lifted 
his  voice  in  the  sacred  song  of  the  Kol 
Niedre;  but  to  his  shoulders  clung  not 
the  harsh  covering  of  the  uniform  of 
war,  but  the  soft  folds  of  the  talith,  emblem 
of  religious  worship.  Behind  the  altar 
(evidently  a  temporary  affair,  constructed 
in  haste),  mountain  and  forest  and  valley 
stretched  away  in  the  interminable  sweep 
of  perspective.  The  darkness  of  the  falling 
night  was  broken  by  the  light  that  came 
from  the  candles  burning  at  the  chasan  s 
side,  and  from  the  flame  of  the  "eternal 
lamp"  which  hung  suspended  over  his  head. 
The  coigns  of  vantage  were  held  by  huge 
burnished  cannon,  stationed  there  to  guard 
the  worshippers  from  a  sudden  attack  of 
the  enemy.  In  the  foreground  were  assem 
bled  curious  groups  of  German  soldiery,  who 
*A  chanter. 


Aaron  Pivansky's  Picture          191 

looked  on  these  mystic  exercises  with  an  air 
of  commingled  pity  and  contempt. 

I  must  leave  the  reader's  imagination  to 
fill  in  the  bare  outline  given,  with  the  dread 
instruments  and  imagery  of  war,  the  sublim 
ity  and  pomp  of  religious  ceremony,  and  the 
calmness  of  exterior  nature  breathing  peace 
and  good  will  to  man.  Touching  epitome 
of  the  sad  history  of  Israel's  weary  sojourn 
among  the  nations,  this  picture  of  Aaron 
Pivansky's;  with  what  infinite  pathos  did 
he  bespeak  the  fateful  separation  of  his 
people  from  the  peoples  of  the  earth, — with 
them  always,  but  of  them,  alas,  how  rarely. 

In  the  flotsam  and  jetsam  of  the  pawn-shop 
the  boy  had  found  a  history  of  the  Franco- 
Prussian  war,  and  in  that  history  (read  with 
avidity,  one  may  be  sure)  he  found  a  few 
lines  touching  upon  the  incident  just  de 
scribed,  and,  Dore-like,  he  had  taken  those 
few  lines  and  made  them  teem  with  the  pas 
sing  fancies  and  conceptions  and  visions  of 
his  dreams. 

His  perspectives  were  by  no  means  true, 
his  color  values  often  false,  and  his  drawing 


192  The  Lucky  Number 

lacked  the  certainty  that  comes  of  much 
practice;  but  in  spite  of  these  major  defects 
and  numerous  minor  ones,  it  was  a  creation 
of  which  a  boy  of  twenty  might  well  be 
proud.  All  he  knew  of  the  technique  of  his 
art  had  been  taught  him  by  one  Brosseau,  an 
habitue  of  L'Auberge,  who  painted  that  he 
might  drink,  and  drank  that  he  might  paint ; 
so  one  knew  not  whether  to  blame  his  art 
for  keeping  him  a  drunkard,  or  liquor  for 
keeping  him  an  artist.  When  he  could  not 
sell  his  pictures  to  a  saloon  he  pledged  them 
at  a  pawn-shop ;  he  had  a  local  reputation 
at  least,  this  Brosseau  —  saloonkeepers  and 
pawnbrokers  knew  he  was  an  artist. 

Aaron  heard  of  him,  cultivated  his 
acquaintance,  and  spent  every  minute  that 
he  could  steal  from  the  shop  in  Brosseau 's 
company.  Brosseau  taught  him  all  he  knew, 
because  he  loved  the  boy  for  the  good  that 
was  in  him,  and  for  the  yearning  and  the 
aspiration  that  had  once  been  his  own ;  and 
with  Aaron  he  left  the  gutters  to  enter  again 
the  divine  temple  of  art. 

Besides    Brosseau    he   found    one    other 


Aaron  Pivansky's  Picture          193 

source  of  instruction,  the  Art  Gallery;  here 
he  spent  the  longed-for,  prayed-for  Saturday 
afternoons  when  the  pawn-shop  was  closed, 
and  when  to  Aaron  it  seemed  that  art  and 
leisure,  twin  sisters  with  arms  ever  in 
tertwined,  swayed  the  universe,  and  did 
not  deny  the  inspiration  of  their  presence 
even  to  the  somber  narrow  streets  of  the 
Ghetto. 

His  work  was  done  mostly  in  the  small 
hours  of  the  night,  long  after  the  family  had 
retired,  and  when  he  himself  was  worn  out 
by  the  tedium  of  his  daily  task.  Often  did 
he  toil  until  the  breaking  of  dawn  warned 
him  of  the  coming  of  the  day,  then  he  hid 
his  canvas  carefully,  and  crawled  to  bed  for 
a  few  hours  of  restless  slumber,  dream-dis 
turbed.  Surely,  surely  in  hours  like  these 
when,  despite  his  heroic  will,  he  fell  asleep 
over  his  work,  the  angel  of  beautiful  dreams, 
who  visited  Fra  Angelico,  Raphael  and 
Luca  della  Robbia,  could  not  resist  the 
temptation  to  whisper  the  secret  of  the  mys 
tery  of  things  in  this  boy's  ear,  and  to  en 
twine  about  his  brow  an  invisible  wreath, 


194  The  Lucky  Number 

woven  of  inspiration,  and  fame,  and  prom 
ise,  and  the  message  of  God. 

Solomon  looked  up  from  the  picture  with 
a  yawn.  "You  painted  the  Omed*  too 
high,"  was  his  only  comment.  "Go  to  bed, 
you,"  he  said,  turning  towards  his  wife  and 
son.  Rachel  followed  the  instructions  with 
out  argument  or  expostulation,  as  was  her 
wont. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  the  pic 
ture?"  queried  Aaron. 

"Nothing,"  snarled  Solomon.  "  Go  to 
bed. " 

In  the  morning  he  found  his  masterpiece 
in  the  show  window,  where  space  for  it  had 
been  cleared,  and  already,  early  as  the  hour 
was,  a  group  of  curious  people  had  been 
attracted  by  the  work,  and  were  lavishing 
praise  upon  it  that  knew  neither  measure 
nor  bound. 

"Even  if  my  father  says  nothing," 
thought  Aaron,  "he  is  proud  of  me,  and  he 
wants  people  to  know  that  he  has  a  son  who 
can  do  a  work  like  that."  And  he  went 

*The  Altar. 


Aaron  Pivansky's  Picture          195 

about  his  distasteful  tasks  as  if  his  heart  were 
in  them,  that  he  might  show  the  father  his 
kindness  did  not  go  unheeded  and  unappre 
ciated. 

PART  II. 

THE  PICTURE  IS  SOLD. 

No  one  in  the  Ghetto  save  Becky  Cohen 
suspected  that  Solomon  Pivansky's  son  nour 
ished  any  thought  that  rose  above  the  debit 
and  credit  line  of  his  father's  ledger;  but 
she  was  as  Aaron's  left  hand,  knowing 
whatever  his  right  hand  did.  Becky's 
mother  kept  the  combination  book-shop  and 
bakery,  which  gave  the  girl  a  two-fold  oppor 
tunity —  often  lacking,  alas!  —  of  caring  for 
mind  and  body  equally,  so  one  never  went 
hungry  that  the  other  might  fatten. 

Becky  had  devoured  all  the  books  in  her 
mother's  shop,  some  fifty  and  odd,  with 
even  a  greater  eagerness  than  she  devoured 
the  "kickfack,"*  and  she  showed  her 'par 
tiality  for  the  books  by  devouring  them  over 
*Cakes. 


196  The  Lucky  Number 

and  over  again.  They  were  all  romances  of 
high  life,  seen  through  the  wrong  end  of  an 
opera-glass,  and  made  to  seem  very  high 
indeed;  so  high,  that  Becky's  eyes  were 
strained  from  constantly  looking  upward, 
and  she  found  herself  unable  to  look  down 
to  where  life  had  placed  her. 

While  her  hands  were  busy  waiting  on  cus 
tomers,  her  mind  was  wandering  afar,  holding 
imaginary  conversations  with  dukes  and 
duchesses. 

She,  like  Aaron,  had  been  gifted  with 
imagination,  but  unfortunately  it  had  been 
twisted  in  the  wrong  direction,  and  was  pro 
ductive  of  nothing  better  than  empty  and 
idle  dreams;  while  his,  mastered  by  a  firm 
will  and  a  healthy  ambition,  was  creative 
and  powerful. 

Becky,  thus  nourished  on  romance  and 
pastry,  grew  rapidly  to  her  teens,  and  be 
came  a  healthy  and  comely  maid  to  look 
upon,  a  little  too  stout,  perhaps,  but  comely 
for  all  of  that,  with  features  regularly  cast 
in  a  Jewish  mould,  with  black  hair,  and 
sloe-black  eyes  that  under  two  heavy  long 


Aaron  Pivansky's  Picture          197 

lashes  danced  merrily,  and  a  complexion — 
this  is  the  finishing  stroke  of  the  photograph 
— that  was  by  contrast  strikingly  fair  and 
ruddy,  and  made  two  rows  of  perfect  teeth 
show  to  rare  advantage  whenever  she  opened 
her  pretty  mouth  to  laugh,  which,  you  may 
be  sure,  was  very  often. 

It  was  their  very  longing  in  common  for 
higher  things,  this  ambition  to  be  something 
above  what  they  were,  that  drew  Becky  and 
Aaron  together  and  made  them  fast  friends. 
Often,  weary  and  sick  of  battling  against 
such  odds,  he  might  have  given  up  the 
struggle  had  not  her  words  of  consolation 
and  encouragement  intervened  and  armed 
him  with  new  resolution. 

She  went  to  the  Art  Gallery  with  him, 
and  always  managed  to  bring  their  visits  to 
an  end  in  front  of  one  of  Millet's  pictures. 
"See,"  she  would  say,  "what  this  man 
did,  and  you,  yourself,  have  often  told  me  he 
had  fewer  advantages  than  you,  and  far 
more  to  contend  against."  Then  Aaron 
would  answer  nothing,  but  would  compress 
his  lips  tightly  and  resolve  in  his  heart  to 


198  The  Lucky  Number 

become  a  great  painter  like  Millet,  and 
never  to  give  up  trying  until  death. 

Had  it  not  been  for  Becky,  the  young 
aspirant  would  have  left  his  home  and  taken 
desperate  chances  against  starvation  for  the 
love  of  his  art,  but  she  pointed  out  the  folly 
of  such  a  course,  and  forced  him  to  bide  his 
time  impatiently.  Her  one  hope  for  a  posi 
tion  in  the  greater  world  was  Aaron,  and 
she  did  not  propose  to  allow  that  hope  to 
commit  involuntary  suicide.  In  the  odd 
mixture  of  qualities  that  went  to  make  up 
Becky,  one  large  grain  of  common  sense 
had  luckily  found  its  way,  and  given  taste 
and  flavor  to  the  whole. 

When  he  told  her  of  his  last  great  inspira 
tion,  and  how  he  feared  that  he  had  neither 
the  skill  nor  the  training  necessary  to  work 
out  so  sublime  a  subject,  and  save  it  from 
being  ridiculous ;  she,  seeing  at  a  glance,  the 
vast  possibilities  it  contained,  urged  him  on, 
now  by  a  word  of  encouragement,  now  by  a 
word  of  praise,  and,  when  all  these  failed, 
by  whole  sentences  of  scorn.  The  work 
once  fairly  under  way,  she  kept  his  ambition 


Aaron  Pivansky's  Picture          199 

at  fever  heat,  and  never  allowed  him  to  lag 
or  grow  despondent.  If  the  artist  feared 
the  work  was  not  progressing  fast  enough, 
she  proved  to  him  that  it  was  progressing 
too  fast ;  and  if  he  feared  that  the  work  was 
progressing  too  fast,  she  proved  with  equal 
facility  that  it  did  not  progress  fast  enough. 

She  was  one  of  the  first  to  spy  the  picture 
in  the  window;  and,  after  finding  out  from 
the  artist  how  this  came  about,  she  silently 
took  her  place  in  the  increasing  crowd,  and 
llistened  eagerly  to  all  comments ;  and  when 
ever  anything  of  importance  was  said,  she 
stored  the  words  away  in  her  memory  that 
she  might  have  the  pleasure  of  repeating 
them  to  Aaron  verbatim. 

The  next  evening  as  Aaron  was  slowly 
returning  homeward  after  the  execution  of 
an  errand  in  the  neighborhood,  his  hands 
thrust  in  his  pockets,  his  head  knocking 
against  the  stars,  and  a  Jewish  melody  on 
his  lips,  he  heard  Becky  calling,  and  he 
stayed  his  steps  to  await  her  coming. 

She  was  pale,  breathless,  visibly  per 
turbed  and  anxious;  he  saw  at  a  glance 


2oo  The  Lucky  Number 

that  something  had  gone  wrong,  and  he  felt 
intuitively  that  it  concerned  his  picture. 

"Becky,  what's  the  matter?"  he  asked. 

"O  Aaron,  your  picture" — the  words 
seemed  to  stick  in  her  throat  as  if  of  too 
dire  portent  to  be  spoken  at  once. 

' '  Come,  out  with  it ;  I  know  it  's  something 
bad;  I'm  ready  to  hear  it." 

She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands, 
afraid  to  look  at  him,  as  if  she  had  been 
responsible  for  the  misfortune.  "Your 
father  sold  it,"  she  cried  out,  rather  than 
spoke. 

"I  '11  get  it  back,  mark  that,"  he  called, 
darting  down  the  street.  As  he  ran  past 
the  shop  he  glanced  at  the  window  in  the 
hopeless  hope  of  finding  his  picture  still 
there. 

Solomon  stood  behind  the  counter  busily 
assorting  an  oblong  tray  of  rings.  On  see 
ing  him,  he  looked  up  and  said  in  an  unusu 
ally  good-natured  way,  "I  sold  your  picture 
for  you." 

The  words  and  manner  of  saying  them 
quite  disarmed  Aaron,  and  he  stood  unable 


Aaron  Pivansky's  Picture         201 

to  hurl  one  of  the  thousand  invectives  that 
shot  barbed  and  pointed  to  his  lips.  In 
the  short  run  from  Becky  to  the  shop,  his 
nimble  wit,  distancing  his  feet,  had  precon 
ceived  his  father's  line  of  defense,  and  had 
laid  in  accordance  therewith  a  plan  of  coun 
ter-attack;  but  the  enemy  used  unwonted 
tactics,  and  he  found  his  preparations  mere 
impedimenta. 

"Sold  it,  sold  it  for  me;  you  talk  as  if 
you  really  believed  that  you  had  done  me 
a  favor,"  shrieked  Aaron,  his  face  white 
with  rage,  and  his  small  thin  body  quivering 
with  excitement. 

"There  are  fools  and  fools,"  remarked 
Solomon  with  a  sententious  shrug  of  the 
shoulders.  "Can  you  get  twenty  dollars 
for  mashofes*  like  that  every  day?" 

"Twenty  dollars!"  Such  paltry  pay  for 
a  deed  so  base,  so  despicable.  His  heart 
clung  to  his  ribs  to  keep  from  sinking;  his 
breast  heaved  and  fell  as  though  it  would 
burst  asunder;  and  the  tears  trickled  down 
his  throat,  rather  than  swept  to  his  eyes; 
Trash. 


202  The  Lucky  Number 

some  seconds  passed  before  he  could  trust 
himself  to  speak. 

"Twenty  dollars!  Do  you  mean  to  say 
you  were  fool  enough  to  sell  it  for  twenty 
miserable  dollars?  Were  you  out  of  your 
mind  when  you  sold  it?  Who  bought  it, 
who?  Speak  quick,  there  may  be  time  to 
get  it  back.  I'll  buy  it  back  again  for 
eighty." 

He  grasped  the  door  knob,  ready  to  start 
on  hearing  the  name  of  the  purchaser.  The 
picture  once  recovered,  he  meant  that  his 
father  should  hear  more  from  him  concern 
ing  this  night's  transaction,  but  now  time  was 
precious,  too  precious  to  waste  in  futile  quar 
rel  and  recrimination. 

Solomon's  self  assurance  left  him,  and  he 
was  thoroughly  crestfallen;  for  once  in  his 
life  he  feared  that  he  had  driven  a  bad  bar 
gain.  The  boy  was  right,  he  was  a  fool,  he 
should  have  held  out  longer;  without 
further  solicitation  he  described  the  purcha 
ser  to  the  best  of  his  ability,  but  who  he 
was  and  where  he  lived,  Solomon  did  not 
know. 


Aaron  Pivansky's  Picture         203 

"I  '11  come  back  when  I  find  my  picture 
and  not  until  then;  if  I  don't  find  it, 
you  '11  never  see  me  here  again,"  and  with 
these  words  firmly  and  resolutely  spoken, 
Aaron  slammed  the  door  and  was  gone. 

"When  he  's  hungry  enough  he  '11 
come  back,  and  that  won't  be  long,"  said 
Solomon  to  his  wife  an  hour  later,  as  he 
related  to  her  what  had  happened. 

But  all  that  night  she  sat  up  waiting  for 
the  sound  of  his  knock  at  the  door,  and 
many  another  weary  night  did  she  sit  wait 
ing  and  longing  with  a  " Bornch  Habo"*  on 
her  lips.  But  he  did  not  come  to  end  the 
agonizing  tedium  of  her  vigils,  or  to  give 
the  only  reward  she  asked  in  return  for  her 
love,  her  sacrifice,  and  forbearance — the 
sound  of  his  knock  at  the  door. 
*Blessed  be  he  who  cometh. 


204  The  Lucky  Number 


PART  III. 

THE    PICTURE    IS    FOUND. 

Aaron  brought  all  the  wit,  all  the  wisdom 
and  all  the  energy  that  were  his  into  active 
play  in  the  search  for  his  picture;  but  the 
play  was  one  of  pure  chance,  skill  counted 
for  naught.  So  the  weeks  sped  on  and  left 
him  without  even  as  much  as  a  clue  to  its 
whereabouts. 

The  opportunity  to  express  himself  in  his 
art  had  been  his  all-in-all,  subtract  it  from 
the  sum  of  things  that  made  his  world  and 
the  result  was  a  zero.  Now  that  it  seemed 
farther  off  and  more  unattainable  than  ever, 
he  grew  despondent,  misanthropic,  his 
strength  of  character  proving  his  weakness 
and  dragging  him  downward  with  the  same 
force  by  which  it  had  guided  his  flight  up 
ward. 

On  one  gloomy,  rainy  day,  it  chanced 
that  Aaron,  more  atrabilious  than  the 
weather,  found  himself  in  the  neighborhood 
of  the  Art  Gallery, and  deluded  with  the  idea 


Aaron  Pivansky's  Picture         205 

that  it  was  for  the  sake  of  the  shelter,  and 
not  to  gratify  the  desire  of  seeing  again  the 
paintings  of  his  beloved  masters  (he  affected 
to  believe  that  his  love  for  all  that  con 
cerned  his  craft  had  turned  into  aversion), 
he  went  thither. 

Near  the  entrance  on  the  main  floor,  was  a 
large  placard  announcing  the  fact  that  the 
pictures  competing  for  the  ' '  S — scholarship" 
were  hung  in  the  ante-room  to  the  left  of 
the  stairway.  This  ' '  S — scholarship,  "offered 
annually  by  a  multi-millionaire,  entitled  the 
winner  to  a  two-year  residence  for  study  at 
Paris.  Aaron  knew  of  this  prize;  but  he  had 
made  the  resolve  to  wait  another  year  or 
two,  and  then  —  go  to  Paris. 

In  the  anger  and  rabid  jealousy  of  his 
mood,  a  mood  that  was  fast  centering  and 
fashioning  itself  into  a  temperament,  he 
resolved  "to  cut"  the  ante-room,  and  deny 
it  the  honor  of  his  presence.  What  interest 
was  there  for  him  in  this  battle  of  the  pic 
tures,  since  he  was  denied  the  right  to  wield 
a  brush?  He  passed  the  room  some  three  or 
four  times,  and  then  condescended  to  enter 


206  The  Lucky  Number 

that  he  might  pass  an  adverse  criticism  which 
was  to  include  the  whole  collection  in  one 
prejudiced  sweep.  The  first  canvas  his  eye 
happened  to  fall  upon,  the  one  occupying 
the  most  conspicuous  place  in  the  exhibi 
tion,  was  his  own. 

Have  you  ever  seen  the  reflection  of  your 
image  in  a  glass  at  the  end  of  a  long  corri 
dor,  and  been  bewildered  for  an  instant  by 
the  strong  resemblance  the  approaching, — 
and  shall  I  say  august,  —  personage  bears  to 
yourself?  A  second,  and  the  illusion  is 
broken,  and  you  stand  blandly  smiling  at 
the  mistake.  In  the  infinitesimal  division 
of  a  minute  that  separated  the  discernment 
from  the  absolute  recognition  of  his  picture, 
Aaron  experienced  a  similar  sensation.  The 
idea  struck  him  forcibly  that  he  had  seen 
that  subject,  or  one  much  like  it,  on  canvas 
before;  then  it  dawned  upon  him,  like  a 
flash,  that  the  picture  was  his. 

He  wasted  no  time  in  threading  the  laby 
rinth  through  which  it  must  have  passed  be 
fore  reaching  this  destination,  but  forthwith 
he  sought  the  director  of  the  Institute,  and 


Aaron  Pivansky's  Picture         207 

poured  into  his  ears  the  story  of  the  picture 
and  all  his  woes. 

He  was  so  perturbed  and  excited  that  he 
wandered  in  his  narrative,  spoke  inconse 
quentially,  repeated  the  same  facts  in  a 
slightly  different  way,  and  appeared  to  con 
tradict  himself;  his  age,  too,  gainsaid  the 
probability  of  his  boasted  accomplishments, 
and  the  director  failed  to  be  convinced. 

"Even  if  wrong  had  been  done  you,"  he 
said,  "it  would  be  beyond  my  power  to 
right  it.  However,  you  might  see  the 
president  of  the  Institute, ' '  and  he  wrote  the 
name  and  address  for  him. 

To  speak  in  contumelious  phrase  the  scorn 
and  hatred  he  felt  for  the  man,  was  Aaron's 
first  impulse;  but  he  restrained  himself,  not 
wishing  to  snatch  away  the  last  straw  from 
his  drowning  hope. 

When  he  finally  found  the  president,  that 
dignitary  treated  his  story  with  greater  in 
credulity  than  the  director,  and  suggested 
that  he  might  see  another  official. 

Thus  after  being  sent  from  pillar  to  post, 
and  from  post  to  pillar,  Aaron  returned  to 


2o8  The  Lucky  Number 

the  Art  Gallery,  sore  of  foot  and  heavy  of 
heart,  desperate,  and  willing  to  set  sail  with 
any  wind,  to  risk  his  craft  on  any  sea. 

Since  they  had  denied  him  justice,  he 
would  administer  it  with  his  own  hands. 
He  thrust  his  opened  jack-knife  into  his 
pocket,  walked  up  the  stairs,  sought  the 
room  where  his  work  hung,  and  squarely  in 
front  of  it  he  took  his  stand. 

Woe  to  the  dastardly  sycophant  of  the 
brush  if  he  found  him  there!  He  desired 
that  the  thief  should  be  present,  and  should 
discover  himself  by  some  action  or  word 
regarding  this  chef  d1  oeuvre  and  then — !  But, 
fortunately  for  Aaron,  this  time,  his  desire 
was  frustrated ;  scores  of  people  commented 
on  the  achievement,  had  this  to  say  in 
blame,  and  this  to  say  in  praise,  and  then 
passed  on  to  exercise  their  critical  faculties 
on  some  other  canvas. 

Not  a  word  was  said  that  could  warrant 
Aaron's  suspicion,  crouching  in  the  air,  as 
it  were,  and  eager  to  spring,  in  fastening 
on  the  speaker.  If  the  thief  were  there,  he 


Aaron  Pivansky's  Picture          209 

sedulously  avoided  the  locality  where  his 
putative  chef  d'  ceuvre  hung. 

The  oddity  of  the  subject,  the  boldness 
and  vividness  of  treatment  drew  the  crowd 
to  Aaron's  creation,  and  it  was  crowned  the 
popular  favorite.  From  the  "wonderfuls, 
grands,  masterlys"  that  streamed  steadily 
from  these  gushing  fonts  of  art  criticism,  he 
concluded  that  his  picture  was  easily  in  the 
lead,  and  could  not  fail  to  win  the  prize; 
nor  did  he  need  the  vox  populi  to  make  him 
believe  the  choice  the  vox  Dei.  By  his  own 
independent  judgment  he  arrived  at  this 
modest  conclusion,  and,  immodest  as  his 
conclusion  may  have  been,  it  certainly 
rested  upon  firmer  ground  than  a  quicksand 
of  conceit. 

The  praise  he  found  too  unctuous ;  instead 
of  appeasing  his  anger  it  made  him  fairly 
quiver  in  vexation  of  spirit.  So  somebody 
else  was  to  go  to  Paris  on  the  ticket  that  his 
brain  had  won ;  somebody  else  to  gain  an 
education  by  the  work  of  his  hand !  And 
must  he  sit  quietly  with  arms  folded  and 


2io  The  Lucky  Number 

submit  to  robbery  and  injury  without  even 
lifting  his  voice  in  protest?  He  would  see. 

Towards  noon  the  room  emptied;  the 
crowd  drifting  away,  one  by  one,  left  Aaron 
alone  with  his  anger.  He  stepped  into  the 
hall ;  it  was  likewise  deserted ;  up  the  broad 
marble-stairs  no  one  was  ascending.  He 
glided  back  to  his  masterpiece;  and  lifted  his 
knife,  ready  to  deface  it  beyond  recognition. 
Every  muscle  and  nerve  of  his  body  con 
tracted  so  tensely  and  pulled  inward  and 
downward  with  such  force  that  he  felt  dizzy 
as  one  suffering  from  a  vertigo,  and  he 
almost  lost  his  balance. 

"How  can  I?"  he  thought,  and  feeling 
like  a  mother  who  has  lifted  a  weapon  to 
slaughter  her  babe,  he  let  the  knife  fall  at 
his  side.  Breathing  heavily,  his  heart  beat 
ing  against  his  ribs  with  ponderous,  trip 
hammer  strokes,  he  half  shut  his  eyes,  and 
plunged  the  blade  into  the  heart  of  the 
praying  chasan.  He  had  breathed  such  life 
and  vitality  into  this  central  figure,  he  had 
drawn  its  every  line  with  such  sympathy  and 
feeling,  he  had  watched  it  take  form  with 


Aaron  Pivansky's  Picture          211 

such  reverence  and  love,  that  for  him  it  was 
no  mere  semblance,  but  something  vital  and 
breathing;  small  wonder,  hence,  that  he 
heard  a  mournful  groan  when  the  steel  pierced 
the  chasan  s  heart ;  small  wonder,  hence,  that 
he  heard  a  murmur  of  horror  arising  from 
the  worshippers  at  this  sacrilegious  deed ! 

When  the  canvas  was  slashed  into  shreds, 
he  stood  aghast  at  what  he  had  done,  and 
then,  biting  his  lip  to  suppress  the  sob  that 
was  rending  his  bosom,  he  hastened  down 
the  stairs  and  into  the  street. 

*** 

While  Aaron  had  been  employing  every 
faculty  in  the  search  for  his  picture,  Becky 
was  equally  preoccupied  in  her  search  for 
Aaron.  Moreover,  she  used  his  methods, 
looking  in  the  likely  places  first,  in  the  un 
likely  ones  next,  and  then  starting  all  over 
again. 

Time  and  time  again  she  had  gone  to  the 
Art  Gallery  expecting  to  find  him  there; 
but  she  had  always  returned  a  link  nearer 
the  end  of  the  chain  of  expectation  to  which 
she  was  clinging  so  tenaciously. 


212  The  Lucky  Number 

She  did  not  grow  gloomy  or  despondent, 
however  (gloom  and  despondency  never 
take  root  in  a  soil  so  unfavorable),  for  deep 
down  in  her  heart  was  the  faith,  strong  as 
conviction,  that  somehow,  somewhere, 
Aaron  and  she  would  meet  again,  that  they 
must  meet.  It  always  happened  that  way 
in  the  novels,  and  her  romance  was  of  the  stuff 
from  which  novels  are  spun, — such  novels,  of 
course,  as  she  read; — and  if  it  didn't  end 
that  way  in  this  specific  case,  she  intended 
thereafter  to  read  up  to  the  last  chapter  only, 
and  then  stop,  "for  the  rest  is  lies." 

Every  day  found  her  at  Mrs.  Pivansky's 
with  a  beam  of  sunshine  to  brighten  the 
darkness  of  the  poor  woman's  life.  What 
if  the  rays  were  fictitious ;  what  if  she  did 
have  to  concoct  little  stories  about  having 
seen  Aaron  here  or  there,  or  that  he  was 
sure  to  find  his  picture  on  the  morrow, 
"blessed  to-morrow,"  and  that  he  would 
surely  be  home  the  day  after;  what  matters 
it  whether  such  faery  beams  were  factitious, 
as  long  as  they  brought  light  and  cheer  to  a 
breaking  heart? 


Aaron  Pivansky's  Picture          213 

She  had  always  closed  her  mother's  shop 
at  nine  o'clock,  but  now  she  kept  it  open  a 
full  hour  longer,  fondly  cherishing  the  faith, 
dying  one  minute,  resuscitated  the  next,  that 
before  the  end  of  another  sixty  seconds  she 
might  hear  the  low  whistle,  three-noted,  that 
had  always  signalled  the  hour  of  their  tryst. 

More  than  once,  in  passing  her  shop,  had 
Aaron  caught  a  glimpse  of  Becky  as  she  sat 
on  a  low  stool  behind  the  counter,  reading 
her  novels.  And  more  than  once  did  he 
have  to  struggle  vigorously  against  the 
temptation  to  call  her,  that  he  might  gain 
the  comfort  and  cheer  she  alone  could  give, 
and  for  which  he  yearned ;  but  the  tempta 
tion  was  always  mastered  by  an  empty  pride 
and  haughtiness  of  mood  that  forbade  him 
to  see  her  until  his  picture  be  found. 

Just  as  Becky  closed  her  shop  on  the 
night  of  that  same  day  on  which  Aaron  had 
destroyed  his  treasure  paramount,  she  heard 
his  familiar  whistle.  "It  's  Aaron,  it  must  be 
Aaron!"  she  cried,  running  to  open  the 
door. 

She  had  often  coined  a  speech,  tender  and 


214  The  Lucky  Number 

soulful,  to  say  to  him  whenever  favoring 
fortune  should  bring  them  together;  now 
she  found  herself  face  to  face  with  him, 
unable  to  voice  even  a  commonplace. 

She  extended  her  hand  and  he,  clasping 
it,  remained  silent ;  both  felt  as  if  the  sands 
of  an  hour  glass  were  running  over  their 
palms.  What  thoughts  and  sentiments 
arose  from  the  darkness  of  a  brain  confused, 
and  came  to  life  at  the  clasp  of  those  hands ! 

Aaron  was  the  first  to. break  that  voluble 
silence.  "I  came  to  bid  you  good-bye, 
Becky;  I  am  going  away,  perhaps  forever," 
he  said  falteringly.  "Brosseau  has  some 
decorating  work  to  do  out  of  town,  and  he 
is  going  to  take  me  with  him ;  we  go  to 
night." 

''Going  away  to-night  and  you  come  to 
tell  me  of  it  only  now?  Your  neglect  has 
been  shameful,  Aaron ;  more  than  that,  you 
have  been  cruel,  for  you  must  have  known 
how  I  suffered  from  your  absence ;  and  you 
knew,  too,  what  change  a  word  from  you 
would  have  made  in  my  life. ' ' 

Over  the  boy's  face,  wan  and  peaked  as 


Aaron  Pivansky's  Picture          215 

an  invalid's,  there  passed  an  expression  so 
tristful,  so  pathetic  in  its  appeal  for  sym 
pathy  that  Becky  felt  the  sharpness  of  the 
rebuke  turn  inward,  like  a  thrust  from  a 
two-edged  sword,  and  cut  her  to  the  quick ; 
and  seeing  with  womanly  intuition  how 
much  her  hero  must  have  suffered  since  she 
had  met  him  last,  her  heart  went  out  to 
him  in  his  suffering. 

"Becky,"  he  said,  "you  blame  me  too 
severely,  more  than  I  deserve.  I  've  longed 
to  see  you,  I  fairly  ached  to  speak  to  you 
again.  More  than  once  I  started  to  come 
here  to  let  you  know  how  I  was  getting 
along,  but  things  went  so  badly  with  me 
that  I  could  n't,  I  was  ashamed  to  come. 
It  may  have  been  false  pride,  it  may  have 
been  foolishness ;  call  it  what  you  like,  but  I 
could  n't  overcome  it." 

Then  with  a  fire  and  fervor  that  would 
have  melted  slag,  much  more  a  tender  heart 
like  Becky's,  he  told  her  how  the  quest  for 
his  picture  had  ended. 

"And  now,"  he  concluded,  I  must  go 
at  once,  I  can't  delay;  I  have  good  reason 


216  The  Lucky  Number 

for  thinking  that  the  police  are  hunting  for 
me,  and  if  they  catch  me  they  will  surely 
send  me  to  jail.  And  what  wrong  have  I 
done?  The  picture  was  mine,  I  painted  it, 
and  if  I  destroyed  it,  I  wronged  myself  and 
no  one  else." 

Of  his  dreams,  his  striving  and  endeavors 
this  was  the  end ;  for  having  attempted  to 
reach  the  ideal,  he  was  condemned  to  skulk 
in  gutters  like  an  outlaw.  Icarius-like, 
he  had  tried  to  reach  the  heavens,  but  the 
rough  storms  of  circumstance  had  crippled 
his  rare  Daedalian  wings,  too  weak  for 
flight  so  high,  and  he  fluttered  moaning, 
helpless  to  the  ground. 

When  he  had  finished  Becky  tried  to  give 
utterance  to  the  sorrow  and  disappointment 
she  felt,  but  her  feeling  was  too  surcharged 
with  emotion  to  permit  of  translation  into 
words;  and  born  down  by  the  weight  of  it, 
she  fell  weeping  and  sobbing  into  his  arms. 

"Do  you  understand  why  I  must  go? 
Do  you  forgive  me  for  going  ?"  he  asked, 
holding  her  tenderly. 

"It  's  not  for  you,  Aaron,  to  ask  forgive- 


Aaron  Pivansky's  Picture         217 

ness,  but  for  me,"  answered  Becky,  con 
tritely,  regaining  her  self-possession,  "and 
you  may  be  assured  that  the  others  who 
have  wronged  you  will  ask  it,  too,  before 
long.  Do  n't  go  away,  Aaron ;  stay  here  and 
fight  for  your  rights  to  the  bitter  end ;  your 
very  staying  here  is  a  proof  of  your  inno 
cence.  If  you  go  away,  you  know  what  they 
will  say;  you  know  how  they  will  sneer." 

"I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  go,  and 
nothing  can  change  my  decision.  I  hate 
this  place ;  every  step  I  take  reminds  me  of 
my  failure.  And  if  the  worst  comes  to  the 
worst,  and  they  take  me  and  send  me  to 
jail,  what  then?  I  would  rather  die  than 
stand  the  disgrace  of  it.  No,  I  must  go." 

Then,  smiling  through  her  tears,  Becky 
answered  in  those  noble  words  that  time, 
unwilling  to  let  die,  caught  and  turned  into 
everlasting  pearls  as  they  fell  from  the  lips 
of  Ruth:  "Whither  thou  goest,  I  will  go, 
and  where  thou  diest,  will  I  die,  and  there 
will  I  be  buried :  the  Lord  do  so  to  me,  and 
more  also,  if  aught  but  death  part  me  and 
thee." 


PRINTED  AT  THE  LAKESIDE  PRESS 

BY  R.  R.  DONNELLEY  AND  SONS  CO 

MDCCCXCVI 


THE  LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


DC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  922  947     7 


